Blind Heritage
by chappysmom
Summary: "Ian?" Sherlock heard the break in John's voice as he looked at the lanky teenager alone in the waiting room. The boy huddled in a corner, staring at nothing as he absently rubbed at the blood stains on his jeans. Then the recognition broke through, and, tears welling up in his eyes, he said, "Dad." Part 5 of the Heritage Series. (9 chapters)
1. Chapter 1

Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

This is the fifth story in my "Heritage" series—where I take one fact, change it, and then watch as it alters every aspect of the story. In all of them, John is the grandson of an earl but is still an invalided-home army-doctor who decides to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

In the original mention of John's son in "Higher Heritage," John wonders, "_It's weird to think my son would have been a teenager by now. Can you imagine? Listening to God knows what kind of horrific music, getting piercings or tattoos, maybe._" When I wrote "Continuing Heritage" (part 4), though, I decided I wanted Ian to be younger, so I knocked a few years off. But … what if he were a teenager when he came to live with John?

### ### ###

* * *

"_Is this John Brandon?_"

"Yes, speaking," said John into his phone as he trotted down the pavement, wishing Sherlock's legs weren't so damned long. It was hard enough to keep up with him, but when the rain made the visibility this bad, it was almost impossible.

"_You're listed as next of kin for Ian Brandon?_"

And suddenly his legs weren't working at all anymore. His feet rooted themselves to the cement as his knees considered giving way altogether. "Yes, he's my son," he managed, mouth desert dry. "What happened?"

"_Your son is fine, Mr Brandon_," the voice at the other end said quickly, making breathing possible again. "_Unfortunately, his mother, Mary Brandon … is not._"

Jostled by passers-by, John worked his way over to the nearest building, sheltering under an awning and bracing a hand against the wall for support as the rain came down. "What happened?" he asked, angry with himself for how small his voice sounded, but unable to do anything about it as memories of Mary flashed through his head. The way her blond hair had glowed in the sun. The way her laugh changed when she was helplessly, hilariously tickled by something. The set look on her face when she'd told him she wanted a divorce.

"John? John!" He could hear Sherlock, but he was trying too hard to hear the voice on the phone to respond. His visions of Mary blurred suddenly into tall silhouette in front of him, followed by a concerned face bending down. "Are you all right?"

John ignored him, telling the man on the phone that he would be there as quickly as he could, and then disconnected, looking at Sherlock with … he didn't even know what was on his face.

"Harry?"

He hadn't thought he'd ever hear Sherlock's voice so gentle, but John shook his head. "Mary," he said, correcting him.

"Mary? Who's Mary?"

"My ex," said John, struggling to breathe. "I need a cab."

"What … for an ex-girlfriend? John, we've got a case…"

"Not an ex-girlfriend, Sherlock," John said, watching the road for a cab. "My ex-wife. She's just … there was an accident."

He glanced back at Sherlock just in time to see him silently mouth the word 'wife,' but all he said aloud was, "And she called you?"

John shook his head. "That was the hospital. She … she didn't make it."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said formally, automatically, but there was more than a hint of impatience on his face. "But doesn't she have someone who could…"

"Damn it, where are the cabs?" John asked, frustrated, and then looked at his flatmate, wishing this conversation hadn't needed to come up so soon. He'd only known Sherlock a few weeks, and frankly had been looking forward to seeing how long it took for the man to deduce this. "Mary does, yes. But Ian doesn't."

"Ian?"

"Yes, Ian," John said. "My son."

Sherlock paused for only a moment before leaping toward the kerb, miraculously hailing a cab that John could have sworn hadn't been there a moment before.

#

Once the taxi was on its way, John looked over to Sherlock and said, with a conscious mimicry of their first cab ride. "You've got questions."

"A son?"

John nodded. "Yes, Ian. He's just turned fourteen. Mary wanted custody and, well, with the army, that was the best thing for him. I see him whenever I can, but … I don't know what's going to happen now."

Nor did he. They sat quietly for a moment while John tried to think of all the things he would need to do.

After a bit, he said, "I know you didn't sign up for a flatmate with a kid, much less a teenager. I'll … I'll find somewhere else. I just need a little time."

"Don't concern yourself, John. We'll think of something."

"Really?" If so many other worries hadn't been looming so large, he would have been mortified at the eagerness in his voice.

"Of course. I finally found a flatmate whose company is bearable. What's one more person?"

"A teenager," John said meaningfully.

Sherlock shrugged, but John wasn't reassured. Ian was a good kid, but he was also now a teen who'd just lost his mother. Having to move in with the father he barely knew _and_ his eccentric, crime-solving flatmate?

One more thing to worry about.

#

"Ian?"

Sherlock heard the break in John's voice as he looked at the lanky boy alone in the waiting room. The boy huddled in a corner, staring at nothing as he absently rubbed at the blood stains on his jeans. His blond head lifted when he heard his name, and for a moment he just looked through John as if he were yet another unknown hospital employee. Then the recognition broke through, and, tears welling up in his eyes, he said, "Dad."

The two hugged then, and Sherlock noted the protective way John's arms wrapped around his son. He didn't look uncomfortable about the tears, either. Sherlock supposed John's army doctor training had accustomed him to helping people through trauma.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was decidedly uncomfortable. It wasn't that he didn't understand the sentiment, or even that he thought less of the child (teenager, he reminded himself) for the tears. Everyone reacted to trauma differently, after all, and the boy's mother had just died. He paused for a moment, trying to remember if he had cried when his father died … but no. Sherlock hadn't been close to his father, and it looked as if Ian Watson had been very close to his mother. That made a difference, he supposed.

It didn't look like the hugging was going to end any time soon, so he turned and walked to the nurse's station. He would gather information while John comforted the boy.

To each his strength, after all.

#

Later, when they left the hospital, a numb Ian walking between them, Sherlock hissed as a black car pulled up in front of them. "Mycroft," he gritted out through clenched teeth.

John, though, looked at the driver and was shaking his head. "Not this time, Sherlock. Hello, Stephens. My father sent you?"

"Yes, sir. He said you would need a ride."

John gave a weary nod and laid his hand on Ian's shoulder, guiding him to the car. "Thank him for me, would you? We'll need to go to 221B Baker Street, but … are you hungry, Ian? When's the last time you ate?"

"Dunno."

"Right," said John. "We'll need to stop for food, then. Are you coming, Sherlock?"

He realized that he was staring and, with a blink, pulled himself back to the present enough to clamber into the car behind John, who had a quirk of amusement pulling at his lips. "Your father?" Sherlock finally asked.

"He's on Ian's emergency contact list—has been ever since I joined the army, right, Ian?"

The teenager nodded, looking small. "Him and … and Mum."

"That'll be how he knew about tonight, then. I'm just surprised he's not here. Stephens, do you know why my father didn't come himself?"

"Something about a meeting that could not be postponed, sir, though I understand he made sure you were here, or he would have cancelled the meeting regardless."

"Right," said John with a sigh, as he leaned over just enough that his shoulder was pressed up against his son's. Ian leaned in and Sherlock found himself suppressing a sigh. He didn't 'do' sentiment, and even if he could allow that a child who had just lost a parent deserved a modicum of sympathy, that didn't make him any happier about having to be present for it. If John needed to comfort his grieving son, well, fine. He wasn't altogether heartless, no matter what Donovan and Anderson might think.

The fact that John _had_ a son, though. Now, that was fascinating. It wasn't as much of a surprise to learn that he had been married, but that there was a child? How had Sherlock not known?

Oh, even he missed things sometimes, and John had only lived at Baker Street for a month. There were no (obvious) photos of a child, no "World's Best Dad" mug for his tea. There hadn't been cloying conversations on the phone of an evening. But still … he thought he had deduced everything of importance about John that first night. How could he have missed something like this?

Right now, the boy was quiet, but Sherlock knew this was numb shock—he wouldn't stay this way for long. Within a matter of days (hours?) he would rebound and start playing music and talking and generally being _in the flat_.

Which Sherlock had said was fine.

Sherlock didn't have much experience with teenagers—not since he'd been a teenager—but he'd been happy with that. The teenagers he'd suffered had all been rude and obnoxious, if not outright bullying. Some had been painfully shy and tried to stay out of the way of the others, but Ian didn't have that look. Judging by his hair and his clothes, he looked … _popular_.

What had he agreed to?

#

John knew he wasn't entirely off the hook, but he was grateful for Sherlock's restraint while they stopped for food and got Ian settled at the flat. And hadn't that been fun? At first, Ian insisted on taking the couch ("Think of your shoulder, Dad."). Then Sherlock had protested that would put a damper on his own night owl tendencies, and had offered his own bed, but that had been just too weird. Finally, John had said that for one night, either his shoulder could deal with the sofa or he and Ian could share his plenty-large-enough bed upstairs. Because, that wouldn't be awkward at all, right? Better, anyway, than Ian being entirely alone?

Now, though, they were all sitting in the living room, and John was trying to find a balance between his broken-hearted son and his (allegedly) heartless flatmate. They had talked about Mary and what they thought she would want by way of a funeral service. They had talked about what her parents were likely to decide.

John had called his former in-laws earlier to let them know Ian was safe, and to ask if there was anything he could do. He'd never been so grateful that he and Mary had managed an amicable divorce. He might not be close with the Morstans, but they had always been kind to him, in their way, and if there was something he could do to help, he wanted to.

Ian had refused all phone calls tonight, and now that they were done eating, he had withdrawn into himself and sat, staring at the telly.

"When were you going to tell me?"

He turned to Sherlock, standing in the kitchen door. "Usually you don't need to be told, Sherlock," John said with a small smile.

His flatmate shrugged. "Some things are more interesting than others."

Right, thought John. Because deducing his sister's alcohol problem was so much more interesting than the fact that John was a father. He didn't say it, though, just let his amusement show on his face. What he did say was, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"You wanted one flatmate, not two, and we're not really set up for a third person. It's going to be … Look, I really can look for another place to live, you know. If this is going to be a problem."

"I thought you needed a flatmate," Sherlock said, voice soft.

John gave a nod. "Well, yeah … most of my money was going toward child support and it didn't leave much extra."

Sherlock pinned him with that piercing gaze of his. "You were giving them all of it."

John sighed and gave a weary nod. "Except the army pension. I figured I'd earned that. Now, though, Ian will be living with me, so… The point is that I can afford to move out, if you want your peace and quiet."

"Don't be silly, John. I still need a flatmate," Sherlock told him. "Do you know how long it took to find one I could live with?"

He couldn't help a smile. "But that was before I brought a teenager into the flat."

"True," Sherlock said, stretching out the vowel thoughtfully. "I suppose there's just one, very important question you need to answer."

John blinked, feeling suddenly nervous. "What's that?"

"Did Mycroft know?"

#


	2. Chapter 2

For a grieving teenager, Ian slid easily into their lives. Sherlock was surprised at how seamless the join was, in fact. He wasn't sure how much of Ian's quiet demeanour was due to grief and how much was natural temperament, but he appreciated it.

The living arrangements had settled themselves more easily than he had expected, too. John had convinced Mrs Hudson to let him and Ian take over most of the second floor. The things she had in storage were moved down to 221C, whose rent John gladly paid in order to gain space for Ian—though Ian had lobbied to live in 221C himself to 'save all the trouble.' John had seen through that ploy. "You're still too young to live on your own, kid," he told him. "Ask again in three or four years."

Meanwhile, the boy was settling. Once the funeral was past and he had returned to school, it made things easier. It imposed a regular schedule over the flat—John made sure of that—but it wasn't as inconvenient as Sherlock had feared. Ian was old enough that they didn't need to be there to feed him, and Mrs Hudson was around for emergencies. Mrs Hudson, in fact, had been delighted to welcome the boy to 221 Baker Street and plied him with fresh-baked treats on a daily basis. And if John insisted on being home for supper at a regular time each night, well, it wasn't like he was ignoring Sherlock. Much.

All in all, it was working better than he'd hoped. Especially once he'd bought Ian those headphones so that he could listen to his so-called music without disturbing the rest of them (meaning Sherlock).

As he turned onto Baker Street, he gave a smile, recognizing Lestrade's car at the kerb. Excellent. There must be a case. There had been a dearth of them since Ian had arrived and Sherlock all but rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Things were getting back to normal. Well, the new normal.

He bounded up the stairs to find Ian in the centre of the living room, looking harassed as he faced Lestrade and Donovan. "I told you. My name is Ian Brandon. I live here," he was saying as Sherlock paused in the doorway. (Brandon?)

"Oh, really?" Donovan didn't try to hide the disdain in her voice. "What did they do, kidnap you?"

For a moment, Sherlock wasn't sure if Ian was about to cry or explode with anger, but that was the moment that he looked past Lestrade's shoulder. "Sherlock! They don't believe me."

"Of course they don't," Sherlock said, striding into the room. "Why would they believe the evidences of their own senses? Your homework is spread out on the kitchen table, along with an assortment of the frankly revolting snacks you prefer. Your coat and shoes are by the door, your school calendar on the refrigerator, and there is a _video game device_ attached to the telly. Why should they believe that any of those things mean you belong here?"

He looked over to the officers. "Let's make it official, shall we? Allow me to introduce you. Ian, these are Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sgt Sally Donovan. Lestrade, Sally, this is Ian—John's son."

"John's _son?_"

"That's right. You'll note the similarity in the facial structure, hair and eye colour? He moved in a fortnight ago."

Lestrade had recovered first, though he still looked stunned. "It's nice to meet you, Ian. Sorry we gave you a hard time. But … Sherlock. When did this happen?"

"About fifteen years ago, I imagine," Sherlock said, voice dry, as the stress in Ian's face gave way to a snort of laughter.

"What's going on here?" Ah, John had caught up, carrying the bag of take-out.

"John, I was just introducing your son to Lestrade and Donovan. They seem still to be in a state of disbelief."

"I can see that," John said as he walked in, giving Ian a pat on the shoulder as he walked past to the kitchen. "How much have you told them?"

"Not much, there hasn't been time." Sherlock considered telling John they'd been harassing his son, but thought the emotional fireworks would be less than helpful and likely to delay his getting the details for whatever case they were working on.

"Right," said John, assessing the situation, eyes pausing at the guilty look on Donovan's face. "So you haven't had a chance to tell them how Ian's mother, my ex-wife, was tragically killed just two weeks ago? How this is our first chance to live together since he was three? How helpful Mrs Hudson has been, making sure he feels as welcome as possible? Or even how you've volunteered to help him get his science grades up? Or was Sgt Donovan too busy passing judgement on the very idea of a teenager breathing the same air as you do for you to get a word in?"

Sherlock smiled. Trust John not to miss anything that could affect his son. "Like I said, there hasn't been time."

Lestrade was looking at Ian with sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear about your Mum, Ian."

Ian just nodded as John came to stand beside him. "Car wreck. Nothing anybody could do, right, Ian? But we're all doing our best to adapt?"

"You were married?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Donovan's bluntness. And she had the gall to say he had no sensitivity? John though just looked at her with those direct blue eyes of his and said, "Yes, Donovan, though like many military marriages, it didn't work out. The divorce was final ten years ago, though Mary and I always got along. I miss her, too, though obviously not as much as Ian does. Now, how can we help you? Because I'm afraid I didn't bring enough food for five."

It was with relief that the officers started talking about their case, then, as Ian listened with something like awe. They had told him about the consulting, of course, but this was his first chance to see Sherlock in action, as it were.

Not that it was the same, of course, and Sherlock was surprised to find that he was curious as to how Ian would react to seeing Sherlock work a case. Would he be as impressed as his father?

John was watching him now, and when he saw Sherlock look, he shook his head. "No, Sherlock."

"But…"

"No, you're not bringing my 14-year old son to a crime scene. Not today. And definitely not a murder case."

Sherlock was gratified that Ian looked disappointed, and part of him hoped Sally was watching. See? The boy _wanted_ to spend time with him. He yielded to John, though—there would be time enough later to show Ian. (Show off for Ian? Where had that impulse come from?)

#

John should have known it would come to this. He had always been intrigued by Sherlock's cases, why had he thought Ian would be any different? So when Sherlock's old school acquaintance (because God knew he wasn't a friend) asked Sherlock to investigate a case of vandalism at his high-end bank, John had no qualms about letting Ian tag along.

Or, at least, not until they discovered the missing banker's body in his flat.

John had already felt misgivings about letting Ian see Sherlock breaking into the flat. It was his job as the father to instil good morals, wasn't it? But it was for a good cause, he told himself. Besides, every child alive knows how to use his good looks and charm to get his way. Watching Sherlock scam his way into the neighbour's flat wasn't really that bad, was it?

The dead body, though … John was just glad Sherlock had entered first. When he opened the flat's door for John and Ian, he held up his hand. "Ian, you need to wait out here."

"What? Why?"

"Because Van Coon is dead, and your father will never forgive me if I let you in here," Sherlock said to John's surprise. "What would be helpful would be for you to go wait in the lobby so you can let the police in when they arrive."

"But…" Ian started to whine, but he thought better of it. "Fine. Can I come back up? Or do I have to wait down there?" The "like a kid" was left unspoken but very plain.

"I think the police will have pretty firm opinions about that," John told him, "And I'll bet they won't let you past the hallway outside. I'll come join you, though, while Sherlock points out all the things they miss."

Ian grumbled, but turned back to the lift. It was only after the doors slid closed behind him that John turned to Sherlock. "That was responsible of you."

"Like I said, John, you would never have forgiven me if I had let Ian in here." Sherlock pulled out his phone. "Now, since I'm being 'responsible,' let's call the authorities, shall we?"

"You haven't called them yet?"

"Before I've had a chance to look around?"

Right, thought John. What had he been thinking?

#

The pace grew hectic after that, with Sherlock spotting another victim, Brian Lukis, in the paper.

Accordingly, the next day found the three of them walking up the steps toward the National Gallery to talk to an expert … but not the kind of expert John expected.

Judging by his under-the-breath muttering, Ian certainly thought this back alley was a better choice than going inside the museum. John heard him breathe, "cool," under his breath when he caught sight of Sherlock's expert and Sherlock introduced Raz.

For a moment, John was surprised—really? This kid? But then he remembered that his son was a teenager. Of course the counter-culture artist tagging the side of the National Gallery would draw a certain amount of admiration. He supposed that he would probably have felt the same way when he was his age.

Which is probably why Ian looked almost proud when Raz thrust the paint into his hands so he could look at Sherlock's photos.

But then, well, apparently Ian didn't have very well-developed flight instincts, because he didn't move when the police rounded the corner, but stood there, blinking, almost literally holding the bag.

"Bit of an enthusiast?" the officer was asking as John turned back to see his son cornered.

He picked up the pace and trotted back to his son, saying, "No luck, Ian. Next time, I'll let you chase him while I clean up. You're faster than I am."

"What?"

John pretended to see the policeman for the first time. "Oh, good, you're here. I'm Dr John Watson, and this is my son Ian. We caught a kid defacing the building and were just chasing him off."

"Really." The officer injected layers of disbelief into the word. "A kid we didn't see, who just happened to leave his paint in your son's possession?"

"Yes, of course," said John calmly, ignoring Ian's slightly panicked expression. "Do you see any traces of paint on my son's fingers? His clothes? Having seen his artwork since his first set of crayons, I assure you, gifted though he is in other ways, Ian is not an artist. He gets that from me, I'm afraid."

He saw a hint of doubt in the officer's eyes as he asked, "Do you have ID?"

"Of course," John said, reaching for his wallet. "Dr John Watson, retired RAMC. If you need a reference, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade can vouch for me."

"Lestrade? From Serious Crimes?"

John nodded. "Yes, I help on cases sometimes, along with my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. In fact, we're working on the Van Coon murder right now, with DI Dimmock. Unofficially, of course."

He was amused to see the faint look of horror on the officer's face. "Sherlock Holmes?"

John put as much sympathetic charm into his smile as he could. "Ah, you've heard of him. Yes, he can be rather intimidating, have you met him?"

Both officers shook their heads.

John glanced back over his shoulder. "We came to talk to an expert on painting, so he should be here somewhere. I can try to call him if you like? No?" He looked down at the bag of paints and the can in Ian's hand. "I am sorry we weren't able to catch the culprit for you. It saddens me, seeing how disrespectful kids can be these days, don't you agree, Ian?"

Ian nodded his head. "Oh, yes. It's terrible."

John gave a nod, too. "No strong role models. Not like when I was younger, but then, I was in the army."

"No … no, sir, it isn't," the first policeman offered. "It was good of you to try, though. Er, both of you."

"Thank you," said John, reaching to take the paint can from Ian, handing it to the officer. "You gentlemen are doing fine work, keeping our city safe and clean. I know I appreciate it."

"Yes, thank you. That is, we try," the second officer said, practically stammering.

"Right," said John, reaching to put his arm around Ian, guiding him forward. "We need to go find Sherlock before he comes looking for us."

"Please! I mean, I'm sure he's busy. We wouldn't want to distract him."

"No," agreed John, "No, we wouldn't." He put one hand on Ian's shoulder and began ushering him up the alley, feeling him quivering beneath his hand. "Good day, officers."

He kept to a steady walk down the length of the alley, but didn't say a word until they'd rounded the corner at the end. "Can't keep out of trouble?" he asked, corners of his mouth twitching.

Ian burst into laughter. "It wasn't my fault. You all abandoned me!"

"I know Brandons don't generally run from fights, son, but there are times when a strategic retreat is in order."

"I'm sorry," Ian said. "I can't believe I was so stupid—and that Raz would do that! Just, hand me all of his stuff so he could get away?"

John wasn't any too pleased with that, either, but all he said was, "He probably figured you could get off the ASBO more easily than he could."

"Doesn't make it _right_," Ian said, grumping. "So, where's Sherlock?"

John looked around, but didn't see the detective anywhere. Typical, he thought, as he shrugged. "No idea. Seems a good time to get lunch, don't you think? See if he misses us?"

#


	3. Chapter 3

Investigating with his son trailing along was … different. John was so used to following Sherlock, he barely gave a thought to what he was doing anymore. (Mostly because he usually did what Sherlock told him to do.)

With Ian, along, things changed. Suddenly there were explanations that needed to be made, and with Sherlock, well … that wasn't always easy. Not that Sherlock wasn't being remarkably patient—because he was. Remarkably. John had already known that his flatmate enjoyed an audience. He knew that Sherlock showed him more patience and forbearance than he granted to almost anyone else, but the fact that he extended that to John's son?

There were times he wondered why. Was it just that Ian was so appreciative? Awed like John still was at Sherlock's skill? Because frankly John was always impressed, these days—not only with Sherlock and his deductions, but with the fact that his deductions could break through Ian's cool-teenager façade. Like any other boy his age, Ian worked at being adult and unflappable, but that would melt away when Sherlock started to string together clues and observations.

These days, Sherlock was aweing John not only by being himself, but for being the one factor that regularly broke through to the little boy Ian used to be.

Not that Ian was being particularly difficult … not for a 14-year old who had just lost his mother and found himself living with his father for the first time in a decade. John was constantly giving thanks that Ian had inherited the Brandon good nature that let him take most of this in his stride. If he'd had more of Mary's volatile temper, well … Sally would have been right about there being a trail of bodies around Sherlock.

Instead, they had an Ian who was on his best behaviour, enjoying every minute of tagging along on their investigation. (Well, every minute except the "boring" ones. Between Sherlock and Ian, John would be happy if he never heard the word again in his life.)

Unlike at Van Coon's, Ian had been more patient outside Soo Lin Yu's flat than John had. He contentedly trailed along when they headed to the antiquities museum to interview the young man who'd left her a note.

And when Raz had contacted them to say he'd found more of the yellow graffiti? Ian couldn't have been more pleased.

#

Investigating with John's son was different.

Sherlock found it invigorating in a way he had not expected. He had always found John's participation to be remarkable. Unlike almost every other human being on the planet, he found Sherlock's deductions to be fascinating, and Sherlock had been amazed at how … helpful … that was.

He had never dreamed lightning would strike twice with a second Watson. Or Brandon. He still didn't know why Ian had a different surname than both his father and his mother. (It was a detail that was annoying him, but which he didn't want to ask about. He'd rather figure it out on his own.)

No matter his name, though, Ian turned out to be not a nuisance, mostly. As he'd relaxed into 221B and gotten past the worst of missing his dead mother, he had developed some annoying habits (watching telly, playing video games), but once Sherlock bought him a pair of high-quality, noise-blocking headphones, that problem had been minimized. John had made sure most of Ian's mess stayed in his bedroom instead of their already cluttered living room.

If using the kitchen as his laboratory was still a problem, well, they were working on that, too. (And, really, he didn't understand why John wasn't willing to use the kitchen in 221C. Yes, Mrs Hudson had taken over the space for her own storage, but there was room for food, wasn't there? It wasn't like he could move his lab equipment down there. The mould spores would contaminate everything, and his experiments were important.)

Sherlock had to admit, though, that Ian's fascination with his work was … flattering. Even more so than John's admiration, because while John was smart enough in his own way, he was very much his own man, with his own unique skill set and experiences. Ian, though, was a smart, if unmotivated, blank canvas. He was coasting through school and seemed to have no direction—but he found Sherlock's work intriguing. It was one of the few topics that engaged his interest.

This, he believed, was why John didn't protest when Ian begged to tag along on this case—even once it turned out to be murder. Anything to spark some interest in a son who was wasting his time with stupid mass entertainment. Sherlock wondered how much of that was grief, how much the dead mother's influence. Was Ian naturally lazy? Was he disengaged because he was grieving? Or was he just that boring? Because teenagers often were, weren't they? Regardless, John seemed pleased to see Ian express interest in something off the television screen, and since Ian seemed willing to quietly tag along, Sherlock found he didn't mind the audience.

He hadn't expected John to be so angry after the meeting with Raz, though. When he had arrived back at the flat to find John and Ian eating lunch (boring), he had been treated to a lecture on abandonment. How had ducking away from the police qualified as abandonment? Surely John and Ian had had the same opportunity? It's not like he was used to having an entourage.

He tried to explain, but kept being thrown by Ian's suppressed giggling. It wasn't a malicious laugh, which he found to be a relief. It was almost as if he were sharing a joke with John, and yet John was angry and not joking at all … except … he was?

It was confusing, and he was just as glad when the other two were done eating and he was able to send them on their way to get Brian Lukis' diary from Dimmock while he headed back to the bank to talk to Van Coon's PA.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the beaming Ian when they bumped into each other on the street outside the Lucky Cat later. It was really remarkably pleasant to have someone so happy to see him. Ian even trailed along to the antiquities museum contentedly enough

He stiffened as they left, though, when they were approached by Raz. Odd. Ian had seemed impressed by Raz earlier. Why would … Oh. That yelling John had done earlier. Hadn't he said something about Raz leaving Ian with his paint, and how Ian had almost been arrested? He thought an ASBO might have been mentioned. Did people really worry about those?

It was interesting, though, watching John's clean-cut son circling the edgy, streetwise Raz.

Fascinating in its way, but there were more important things at stake.

#

Standing in front of an entire wall filled with yellow graffiti, John stared at his phone in frustration. "Right, obviously he's not answering, but he needs to see this. I'm going to go find him. You…"

He stopped. What was he thinking? He couldn't leave his 14-year old son behind, not in this area in the middle of the night. He would cover ground quicker on his own, yes, but the very thought was irresponsible.

"I can wait here," Ian told him, face earnest.

"No, that's not an option," John said. "It's not safe."

"Then stay with me. Sherlock will show up eventually, won't he? I'm tired."

John just huffed a laugh. "You don't know him very well yet, do you? And you're too young to be tired."

He was considering his options when a voice spoke from the dark. "I'll stay with him."

John spun, torch light spreading an arc of brightness that ended on a familiar face. "Raz? That didn't go so well last time."

Raz just shrugged while Ian looked altogether too excited about this. "Last time I told you I only had two minutes. But I figure you did me a favour, getting me off the hook. So, I'll stay with the kid while you find Sherlock. Just this once."

John drew a deep breath, buying time to think. His son looked both insulted at being called 'kid' and excited about the after-dark adventure … all overlain with an attitude of 'cool' that he'd layered on like a cloak the minute Raz showed up. He considered—it shouldn't take him long to find Sherlock, and Raz was obviously street-smart enough to keep Ian out of trouble for that long … wasn't he?

"Go on, then," said Raz, starting to look offended. "Kid's got a mobile, doesn't he? You can call him if you worry."

"Yeah, Dad, it'll be fine. Go find Sherlock."

John pursed his lips and then gave a sharp nod. "Right, but unless there's a gang war going on, you had both better be right _here_ when I get back."

"We will. Go."

John turned and took a few steps away, then pivoted back to see both boys watching with matching expressions of irritation, so he gave a nod and was off into the dark, tracking Sherlock.

#

"It was right over here," John said as he led Sherlock to the graffiti. "A whole wall…"

His feet stuttered and paused as he stared. The wall was entirely blank, covered with black paint.

But more importantly, Ian and Raz were nowhere to be found.

#

(Note: I KNOW it's a short chapter, and I'm sorry. It doesn't help that this story is set in the middle of my least-favorite episode (what was I thinking?). Though, speaking of least favourite parts, I'll be doing you the favor of skipping Soo Lin's monologue-of-narrative-death at the museum. Just so you know. On the plus side, I just realized this is going to need to be eight chapters rather than the originally-planned seven, so you're still getting more bang for your buck.)


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock watched John frantically punching buttons on his phone from the corner of his eye as he studied the fresh black paint covering his wall full of clues. There was no way to get them back, no way to remove the paint covering them.

He wanted to blame John, for wandering off and leaving them unprotected, but he had a feeling now would be a bad time, though he wasn't exactly sure what had John so upset. No, it was time to focus on the essentials, not passing unnecessary blame. John had been wrong, of course, but he had no doubt done what he thought was best. What was important now was to try to reclaim whatever they could of the clues.

"John."

John barely glanced up from his phone. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"I need you to concentrate," Sherlock said, taking three long strides over to where his flatmate stood.

"Not now, Sherlock," John said, but Sherlock ignored him and put both hands on his shoulders and spun him around, focusing on his face, striving to capture his full attention. "What are you doing?"

"I need you to focus on your visual memory, John. You saw the clues, that means you can remember them." John struggled to get away, but Sherlock held tight (mindful of the scar tissue on John's left shoulder). "Just close your eyes, John."

"What? No!" John wrenched himself away, clutching at his phone. "I don't care about your clues right now, Sherlock. I'm more interested to know where _my son is_."

"Your … what do you mean?"

"Christ, don't you listen to anything? Ian, Sherlock. I left him here with Raz, and now not only are the clues painted over which I could care less about except for the fact that it proves someone was here, because now neither is my _son_, and forgive me, but I think Ian's safety is a little more important!"

Even as this information sank in, Sherlock was scanning the area. "Where did you last see them?"

"Right over there," said John, pointing briefly before letting his arm fall to his side. "Jesus, this is all my fault … and yours!"

"Mine?" Sherlock asked, raising one eyebrow but refraining from saying more since John appeared to be in a fragile emotional state.

"Yes, yours. If you had bothered to answer your bloody phone when I called, I wouldn't have had to leave your precious clues and my more precious son to come _find you!_"

Sherlock blinked. _Had_ John tried to call him? Surely he would have heard his phone if it had rang, he thought, as he pulled it out of his pocket. There must be some … oh. No mistake. It said right there, three missed calls, right next to a string of texts from John saying he'd found them, why wasn't he answering, was he all right?

He ran his torchlight along the wall, looking for signs of struggle, but saw nothing but traces of footprints braced in front of the wall, balanced for even spray-painting. Playing it out into a wider arc, he could see where Ian had stood, trainers making clear imprints, next to the more smudged ones nearby—belonging to Raz, whose shoes had more wear.

He was just turning his head to call to John, telling him he'd found a trail, when a shout came from up ahead.

"Dad?"

"Ian?" And then John was standing next to Sherlock, practically quivering with the effort not to run over and hug his son (a rule for "public" upon which Ian had been most insistent). Apparently there were acceptable occasions, though, because Ian came straight to John and let himself be drawn in for a quick, brusque, manly embrace.

Sherlock looked at Raz, expecting to see scorn on his face, but instead there was a glimmer of … jealousy? Envy? But then John and Ian broke apart and John was asking what had happened.

"We were waiting where you told us, Dad," Ian said, "Honest, but then Raz said he heard someone coming and that we had to move."

"Heard?" asked Sherlock, sceptical. They were dealing with a thief light-footed enough to could scale walls. He had a hard time believing he would walk heavily enough to be heard.

Raz was nodding, though. "Yeah, or saw, or something. Like … instinct, you know? There was a shadow moving over there, and it just gave me a bad feeling, and since I told the doc I'd watch after the kid, here…"

"Hey!"

Raz ignored Ian and kept talking, staring at the black wall, now. "I figured it was better to get outta the way. Sticking around just didn't feel right and, looks like it was the right thing, yeah? Since the tags are gone?"

"Sadly, yes," said Sherlock, focused again on the lost clues now that he knew Ian was safe.

"So, you two hid, then?" asked John. "Did you see anything?"

Ian shook his head. "Just a … shadow, like Raz said. It must have just been one person, but I didn't see him walk. It was more like … he just moved, like a glide. It was eerie. We didn't stick around to watch."

"Good choice," said John, his hand on Ian's shoulder.

"Yes, yes, very prudent," said Sherlock, "But what are we going to do about these lost clues?"

"That's not a problem, Sherlock," John told him.

"Not a problem? John, the entire case could hinge on those numbers."

To Sherlock's surprise, John was nodding, attention again focused on his mobile. "I know. That's why I took a picture. See?"

And, grinning, he held up the phone to show the photograph while Ian and Raz laughed.

Sherlock sighed. Sometimes he was surrounded by children.

#

"No, Sherlock."

"But, John…"

"No." John was firm. "You're not putting the overflow upstairs. You're the one who wanted all these books delivered. If they're not sufficiently spread throughout the sitting room, you may put the extras in your bedroom. You're not stashing them upstairs. Why did you want them all, again?"

"The code, John. The numbers are in pairs, giving the location of each word. All we need to do is find the right book."

"Something both men owned?" Ian asked from the doorway, looking as if the last thing he wanted to do was enter the room.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Exactly."

"Wouldn't it be faster to just make a list of all the book titles and compare them for books they both had? Instead of searching through all the books?

John glanced at Sherlock. "What do you think? Faster? With three of us? Ian could type the titles into a spreadsheet and then we could compare?"

Sherlock considered a moment, then said, "Then we'd need to go through each box twice, once to record the titles, and then again to weed out the duplicates. The net difference in speed would be minimal."

John sighed and looked at Ian. "I was afraid he was going to say that. You don't need to help, if you don't want to, but you can keep us company. Maybe find enough room for your homework somewhere? Because don't try to tell me you've got it done."

Ian just grinned. "Homework is boring. Murder is interesting."

"Oh God," groaned John. "Two of them."

#

"The circus? I'm not _eight_, Sherlock."

"What's this?" asked John as he yawned his way across the sitting room to the kitchen. Coffee this morning, he thought. Lots of coffee.

"Simply that I thought we deserved a break," said Sherlock. "This circus is only in town for one performance and it looks too good to miss."

"Too good to … Sherlock, we're in the middle of a case. You don't even eat during a case, and now you're taking time off for a circus?"

"All knowledge gathering, John," his flatmate said, "It's always useful to know what skills to expect from visitors to our shores. Besides, Ian seems bored."

If anything, thought John, Ian looked entertained as he listened to the two of them bickering. "Ian," he said, "Needs to get to school. That's why he was lucky enough to get to bed at a decent hour last night, unlike the rest of us. It's a shame to waste it now. Go. We'll talk about Sherlock's circus idea later."

Dragging his feet, Ian picked up his school bag and slouched toward the doorway. "Just when it gets interesting," he grumbled.

Sherlock just lifted his eyebrows. "You find this interesting? I would have thought the chase through the dark last night with a murderer would have been the interesting part of the last 24 hours. Not a mundane conversation at breakfast about a circus."

"Please don't remind me of the murderer out in the dark near my son, Sherlock," John said, as he waved Ian out the door. "I'd really rather not think about that." Because, truly, those moments of not knowing where he'd been when the killer had been close enough to paint over the clues … he didn't want to think about it.

"Of course, John." To his surprise, Sherlock actually looked abashed. "I'm actually surprised to see you up so early."

"I needed to make sure Ian got off to school, didn't I?"

"What? I was awake."

"Yeah, but you were busy arguing about the circus instead of making sure he actually left on time," John said, "And what's with this circus, anyway? What makes it important?"

"I told you, I thought Ian would enjoy…"

"Don't give me that," said John, cutting him off. "What's the real motive?" He plucked the clipping from Sherlock's hands. "Oh, a _Chinese_ circus. One which has performers that can walk through walls, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," said Sherlock, pulling his dressing gown tighter around him. "The only way to know is to go. And it does seem like something Ian would enjoy."

John groaned. "You know what? I'm going back to bed. I'll eat later."

He walked over to the door and glanced back at his disgruntled flatmate. "After all, if it's going to be another late night, I need at least some sleep."

#

"That was amazing," said Ian. "Totally, absolutely amazing. I've never seen anything like it! And, Chinese! Like the case we've been working on!"

John and Sherlock exchanged amused glances at the boy's enthusiasm. "I thought you were too old for a circus," John said.

"Well, yeah, but … this wasn't an ordinary circus, was it? And that crossbow thing? That was so cool! I would have loved to get a closer look at it, but…"

"Sherlock got into trouble," John finished for him. "Typical."

"John, I'm offended. I'd hardly count my little contretemps as being 'trouble,' after all."

"You were wrestling with an acrobatic murderer in the middle of a circus performance, Sherlock. If it weren't for Ian here, you'd have been throttled. And you," he said to Ian, "Don't do that again. No taking on assassins. My heart can't take it."

Ian snorted. "Don't be silly, Dad. Your heart can take anything. You're a Brandon, aren't you? We can trace back to Lionheart himself."

John reached forward and gave his son a little tap on the shoulder, "Don't push it, kid."

"Why do you have different surnames? I thought Ian used his mother's name, but that's Morstan," Sherlock blurted out, looking almost relieved that he finally had an opening to ask the question.

"No, Ian gets his name from me," said John, "I just use my mother's name professionally, ever since I started studying medicine. My full name, though, is John Hamish Watson Brandon. Simple."

"But, why would you need to drop your surname?" Sherlock asked, just as they reached 221B.

"Too much of a mouthful," John said with a shrug, heading up the stairs after Ian and hoping Sherlock would leave it at that. "Jesus, it's a mess in here. Isn't there something we can do about that?"

"Why'd they have so many books, anyway," grumbled Ian, slouching into the chair at the desk. "Haven't they heard of Kindles? IPads?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "That's a good point, actually. Lukis' flat was overflowing with books, but Van Coon's wasn't. His is a much smaller group to sample for the code."

"It looks like you've got some of it, though," said Ian, paging through the papers on the desk.

"What? Where?"

"Right here," he said, pointing to the photo in the evidence bag. "See? Nine Mill."

"I…" Sherlock all but snatched the bag from Ian's hand. "This was from Soo Lin's desk … Of course, she knew the code … and knew the book!" He leapt up and reached for his coat. "John! I'm going back to the museum. Whatever book we need is on Soo Lin's desk. Don't wait up."

John just shook his head as he watched his flatmate dash out the door. "Typical," he said, "He gets a flash of inspiration and runs off and leaves us with the mess. Heaven forbid he just call the museum and ask someone to look at her desk. What do you say we just order some food and leave the books for Sherlock when he gets back?"

"Anything to avoid having to clean these up," Ian said. "You know, I'm kind of the in the mood for Chinese."

"Go get the menu."

#

Sherlock ran back up the stairs. "John! John, I've got the code! It's the London A-Z."

He paused as he realized the living room was empty. The kitchen table had been cleared of books and had three trays laid for food, but where were…? He turned to look at the sitting area again and froze as he saw the slashes of yellow paint on the windows.

Dead.

Man.

Oh, no. John. And Ian. It was only now that he was looking that he realized there were signs of a struggle amidst the clutter. Stupid! How had he missed them! For that matter, how had this happened so fast? He'd only been gone a few minutes, hadn't he? They can't have gone far.

For a moment, he wanted to charge out the door to try to chase them down, but that was illogical. His only hope was to take the code he'd (thankfully) broken and figure out where they had been taken.

If something happened to Ian, John would never forgive him.

Sherlock considered calling Dimmock, but there wasn't time. The explanations would eat too much of what little time he had. Mycroft? His CCTV could be useful for a change … but no, again, there wasn't time. He needed to figure out where they were _going_, not where they were right now.

He scrabbled at the desk, digging out his detailed London street map and began to search.

#


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm telling you, this is a mistake!"

What was Ian going on about, John thought, and why did his head hurt so much?

He shifted in his chair … (a chair?) … and tried to lift his hand and only then realized that he couldn't. That he was, in fact, _tied_ to a chair and for a moment was almost grateful because his head was throbbing so badly and he felt so dizzy, he thought he would have fallen to the floor otherwise.

He was trying to remember exactly what had happened when he realized (slow, John, too slow!) that he had just heard Ian. That he was concussed and tied to a chair and that Ian was there also.

Ian.

Of their own volition, his eyes opened, squinting as he tried to make sense of the blurred images around him. Christ, what had they hit him with? Where was Ian?

"Dad?"

Thank God, he thought as he turned his eyes in that direction. "Ian. Are you hurt?"

"No, but … _Dad_. You…"

"I'm fine," said John, trying to convince himself. Ian sounded frightened enough already, and he couldn't afford to give into the rage he felt at seeing his son tied to a chair a few feet away. "Where are we?"

He could see a network of curved walls around them, some folding chairs and tables, like everything was temporary. Which he supposed it was. That damn circus. Only in town for one night. "You're at my headquarters, Mr Holmes," came a smooth, familiar voice—the performer from the circus.

Wait, what had she called him? "I'm not Sherlock Holmes."

"Don't think you can lie to me, Mr Holmes," she said. "You were heard outside the girl's flat, shouting your name. You have a debit card and cheque in your wallet in the name of Sherlock Holmes. You picked up tickets to our performance saved under your name."

Oh, just wonderful, thought John, trying to fight past the fog in his brain. Yes, he had Sherlock's bank card, but hadn't they seen the ID in his wallet in his own name? With the photo? "I can see how you'd be confused," he said, trying to be diplomatic, "But I am not Sherlock Holmes."

"He's not!" Ian called out, and John winced again at the fear in his voice.

"No? And who are you?"

"I'm Ian Brandon, and that's my father. He's _not_ Sherlock Holmes. He just does his banking for him, and Sherlock was being nice taking us to your circus earlier, that's why the tickets were in his name. But my Dad's not _him_."

The woman feigned a frown as she walked back toward John. "So sad. If this is true, I have no reason to keep you alive, do I?"

To John's horror, she extended her arm and pointed a gun right at his head. And in that moment, all John could think was that, if she killed him, she was very likely going to kill Ian right after him, and that was unbearable. "Please," he said, "Don't hurt him."

"Tell me what I want to know, and I'll let him go," she said, edging closer with the gun.

"What? What do you want to know? What can I do?" John hated the desperation in his voice, but he couldn't help it. He was. He was desperate to do anything, whatever it would take to save Ian.

"Tell me where it is."

The gun was pressed right up against his forehead, now. In the background, he could hear Ian's voice, but all of the concentration he could muster was focused on the woman in front of him. He had no doubt she would shoot in an instant if he didn't tell her what she wanted, but he had no idea what she was looking for. Did Sherlock, he wondered? He often kept details to himself during an investigation. Maybe he held the key that would help John save Ian, but that didn't help him right now. All he had was his determination to let nothing hurt his son … and no way to enforce that.

"Where what is?"

Her eyes narrowed as her face twisted in rage and, without hesitation, she pulled the trigger.

#

"_NO!_"

For a moment, all John could hear was his own, harsh breathing in his ears as Shan leaned forward to taunt him, but then he realized he was hearing Ian's screams.

He had thought he'd never have to hear his son's screams again. They had been familiar, expected, when he was an infant. Terrible while teething, but they had faded to rare occurrences after that, only appearing when his good-natured son had hurt himself or had a nightmare. But this. This was something John had never wanted to hear. That kind of terror in his son's voice? Even Shan had turned her head now, staring as Ian practically babbled, "No, please, you can't, he's all I have."

"Poor child," she said. "How cruel of your father to play with you like this, when all he needs do to save your life is tell us what we need to know."

"But he doesn't know! And you can't kill him, please, you can't. Not when I've just … you _can't_."

Shan had glided over to Ian now and was running the gun barrel along his cheek. "When you've just what, child?"

"Leave him alone," John gasped out, still fighting the concussion and dizziness as he tried to force his heart-rate down. This was a nightmare, a father's worst nightmare, and he couldn't string two thoughts together to do anything about it.

"Your father's forgotten the first rule about assassins, child," Shan said, ignoring him. "What does it tell you when an assassin misses?"

"I … I don't know," Ian said, stammering, eyes wide.

"That he wasn't trying." She smiled back at John, gun still pointed at Ian. "Clearly we need some more incentive. Perhaps a demonstration?"

"No," John said, "You're making a mistake. A lot of them, actually."

To his left, he could see Shan's cohorts moving a large … something … under a sheet. He didn't know what it was, but he was sure he didn't want it any closer to Ian than it was.

"Really, Mr Holmes?"

"It's Watson, like is says on my ID," John said, trying to keep his voice level as the sheet was removed, revealing the deadly cross-bow from the show, pointing directly at his son. "And you're making a terrible mistake. You're probably not overly concerned with international relations between our countries, and all, but you really need to think before you deliberately harm that boy. There are some acts that can't easily be overlooked or covered up, no matter how large an organization you might have."

She held up one hand and turned back to him. "And why would anyone other than his father care about this child?"

"Ian, tell her who your uncle is."

"You mean Uncle Alan? He's the UK ambassador to China."

"That's right," said John, somehow forcing out complete sentences now. "And he'll be quite unhappy if a Chinese national were to hurt his nephew. A personal tragedy, perhaps, but enacted here on British soil? By a circus that travelled halfway around the world for one performance? It seems suspicious enough to warrant investigation, don't you think? It might draw some unwelcome attention."

"You are lying, again. The ambassador's name is Brandon."

"You really don't pay attention, do you? Ian told you his name was Brandon. I know you say you're just after information, here, but if you kill us, not only won't you get what you want, but you're going to draw all kinds of unwanted attention."

She had regained her composure, though. "And who would tell them? If you are both dead, there can be no link. And if you in fact have no information to give me, what reason do I have to keep either of you alive?"

"You're forgetting," said John, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, "The reason you brought us here in the first place. Sherlock Holmes. He already knows you're involved, and if anyone can find your lost whatever-it-is, it's Sherlock. You can hold us here as leverage, if you think it's your best choice. The man loves nothing better than a complicated mystery, but if either of us is hurt? He's not going to care about the mystery at that point. You really don't want to get on his bad side."

"He has not impressed so far," she said with a sneer. "Have we not given him every opportunity to solve this?"

"Like painting over the clues by the train tracks?"

"A challenge, doctor. One he clearly is unable to meet. No, I am unconcerned about getting on his bad side, as you warn. After all, how would that even be possible? He's not even here."

"Am I not?" came a familiar baritone from one of the tunnels. "Because he's right you know."

"Right about what?" asked Shan with a snarl as she pointed her gun in Sherlock's direction.

"You really don't want to get on my bad side. Nor do you want to fire that handgun, not with the curvature of these walls. The bullet would ricochet. It might even hit you."

John was squinting again, trying to see Sherlock in the gloom. (Really, who used actual torches these days?) He wondered if Sherlock had come on his own, if he had brought backup. Still, just knowing his flatmate was there was reassuring. He started struggling with his bonds again as he watched Sherlock take out one of the henchmen, and then … then, everything went pear-shaped.

Somebody, he wasn't sure who, fired a shot that—just as Sherlock warned—ricocheted. Only instead of spinning harmlessly off into a wall, or conveniently taking out one of the bad guys, it went through the hanging sandbag.

And slowly, the deadly weight started lowering toward the giant cross-bow.

The one aimed right at Ian.

"Ian!" John struggled harder, trying to get loose, get to his feet … anything that would let him get close enough to shift the aim of that deadly contraption. He could see that Ian was frozen, staring at the giant arrow aimed his way. John was too far away from it to do anything, though, tied too securely to the chair to be able to worm his way free. (Apparently circus people really know their knots.)

Near the entrance, he saw Sherlock's head whip around, observing Ian's predicament, and he rushed across the floor and reached for the rope, but John already knew that wasn't going to work. Not without a knife or a lot more time than they had. "Move the chair!" he shouted, but before Sherlock could react, he was grabbed from behind by that dramatic scarf of his, and meanwhile, the bag kept rising and the deadweight lowered, and Ian was almost out of time.

With an effort, John was on his feet, tottering toward the damn machine, but between the ropes and the concussion, his balance was nowhere near adequate for the job and he fell over, weighed down by the chair and feeling more helpless than he ever had in his life.

"Dad!"

God, he didn't want to ever hear that note of panic in his son's voice again, John thought, as he tried to pivot the chair around so he could do … he didn't even know … but something. He could see Ian trying to rock the chair, to move it, but his legs weren't long enough to get leverage. John looked around frantically. He could almost reach the machine, and time was running out. It was getting to the point where even just a kick to change the aim was better than just letting this take its course—anything other than seeing his son skewered by a giant crossbow quarrel.

He saw Sherlock heave his assailant back and lunge forward to grab the chair, pulling it aside just as John kicked out and the bolt went flying … just past Sherlock's shoulder to hit Ziu Ziu (assuming that was Soo Lin's brother?).

Christ, that was too close, he thought. Way too close.

The three of them stared at each other, relieved and disbelieving that it was over.

John looked at Ian, and gave a shaky smile. "You were right about the circus being a bad idea."

His son nodded. "It's Sherlock's fault."

"Yeah, it always is. We'll just blame him."

Sherlock glanced between the two of them and gave a tight smile. "See if I come save you next time."

John tried for another smile, but couldn't quite manage it, as he thought about their close call. The abduction, the adrenalin, Sherlock almost being throttled, and Ian … oh God, Ian coming so close to being killed for no reason whatsoever. He struggled some more, trying to get a better look at his son as Sherlock worked at his ropes and suddenly, it was all too much and when another wave of vertigo hit, he just closed his eyes and let it wash him away.

#


	6. Chapter 6

"Dad?"

Alerted by the panic in Ian's voice, Sherlock looked around him to see John unconscious on the floor.

Hurrying now, he pulled out his pocket knife and cut through the rope around Ian's arms, and moved to his wrists. "Hold on, I'll check on him," he told the boy. "What did they do to him?"

"Just … just knocked him out, I think, but he was out for a while—the whole time it took to get here—and he looked really woozy for a while."

To Sherlock's relief, the minute he touched John, he felt him stir.

"M'fine," he slurred.

"I think you might be exaggerating a tad, John. Hold on." He cut his friend loose, carefully making sure he didn't hit his head as he slumped to the ground. Sherlock gently explored John's skull with his fingers, feeling the large bump rising, but not feeling any gaps in the bone. "It's just a concussion, I think, along with the adrenalin crash." He piled his scarf under John's head as John groaned, mumbling something like, "You're a doctor now?"

"Not at all, but I know enough that you should stay put for a few minutes until the nausea passes. Ian, come over and keep him from doing something stupid."

He waited for Ian to scramble over and then was on his feet, phone in hand as he looked around. Shan had gotten away, but there was no point searching for her now. He had more important things to think about. John might have been joking just then when he said this was Sherlock's fault, but in its way, it was.

With Dimmock and an ambulance on their way, he returned to John and Ian, relieved to see John looking better. He had colour in his face again, even if it was drawn with pain. "If you're not careful, they're going to want to keep you at hospital overnight, John."

"Oh, lord, anything but that," his friend said, struggling to stand up.

"Not so fast," Sherlock told him as he reached past him to right the chair he'd been tied in. "Try sitting upright for a few minutes before standing. You know you'd tell me the same."

"That's because you're an idiot," John said, but his eyes were on his son. "How are you?"

Ian sniffled. "I'm not the one who was knocked out, Dad."

"No, but you're the one who was almost skewered. _How are you?_"

"I'm fine."

Sherlock sighed. "It must be genetic. John, Ian is unharmed, though emotionally distraught from a stressful evening and concern about his father. Ian, your father is well enough, just concussed, which means he's dizzy, possibly nauseated, suffering a bad headache, and very likely cranky, but most of that will go away with a good night's rest."

"Not that I'll get that," said John, "Since I'll need to be woken up every hour or two. Sherlock, how are you? Your throat?"

"Fine," said Sherlock dismissively.

John grinned. "Good to know we're all fine, then, if a little worse for wear." He looked around. "What happened to Shan?"

"She got away during the excitement."

"Right. Well, I'm not worrying about that tonight," said John. "I just want to go home."

#

It took longer than that, of course, though they were able to beg off due to fatigue and injury, promising to make formal statements the next day. Even better, so far as John was concerned, the ambulance had had ice packs and paracetamol, both of which were at least helping the worst of his headache.

John was already thinking about the blog post he needed to put up—something that would make quite clear which of them was Sherlock and which was John, just to avoid any further confusion. (Though he still couldn't believe that mistake had happened in the first place. Maybe Shan just hadn't recognized valid UK identification when she saw it? She certainly hadn't seemed the brightest of villains, with her dramatic penchant for roof-walkers and acrobats.)

While Sherlock talked to Dimmock, John and Ian walked toward a waiting cab. John reached over to put his arm around his son's shoulders, just so relieved he was well and whole. That had been too close, too horrifyingly close.

It was all he could do not to clutch at Ian, to tuck him in someplace safe and keep him there until he was eighteen. Twenty-five, maybe. Starting with the accident that killed Mary, his son had come close to death far too many times in the last month, and John didn't think he could bear it if something happened to him.

To his surprise, he felt Ian's arm wrap around his waist, in an unusual display for a fourteen-year old. "I'm glad you're okay, Dad," he almost whispered.

John's arm tightened. "Me, too, but you know I'll always do everything I can to watch out for you, yeah?"

"Well, yeah, but … tonight…"

"I know," John said with a sigh, "I was tied to a chair with very limited options … but we still got you out okay."

"No," said Ian, shaking his head. "I mean, yes, you did, but…. I can't … I just … with Mum…"

John stopped and put both hands on Ian's shoulders. "But we're okay, both of us—and Sherlock, too. I promise that I will do everything I can to keep it that way—and that includes keeping myself breathing and part of your life for probably a lot longer than you're going to be happy about when you're thirty-five and I'm still annoying you."

Ian gave a little huff of a laugh, and John breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled him in for a quick hug, ignoring the police presence around them.

"Very touching," came Sherlock's voice behind them. "Who is reassuring whom?"

"Mutual, really," said John. "Are we ready to go? I'm exhausted."

He caught a flicker of affection in Sherlock's eyes as he nodded and said, "Yes. Let's go home."

#

It was a long night, trying even to Sherlock's irregular sleeping patterns. He set the alarm on his phone to wake him every two hours and spent what was left of the night nudging an irritable John to ask simple questions and make sure he was generally breathing and alert. (Or as alert as one would expect in the middle of the night.)

Finally, he gave up on the idea of sleep for himself at all, and puttered as quietly as possible in the sitting room, boxing up books and wondering how long he needed to wait to start on the yellow paint. (Mrs Hudson was going to scold about that, too, he was sure, but at least this wasn't his fault.)

Or, not directly. He certainly hadn't expected John and Ian to be kidnapped, or that their lives would have been treated so cavalierly. He hoped never to live another few minutes like those when he thought Ian was going to die, skewered to that chair in front of his horrified father. Sherlock, of course, had not been horrified. Not at all. A bit … concerned, perhaps, but nothing more.

His phone chirped, reminding him it was time to wake John again, so he dropped the books he was holding into a box and silently stole up the stairs. "John?"

"Mmph … yes, I'm awake," came John's sleepy voice. "Are you going to ask the Prime Minister's name again? Because it doesn't help if you don't know if I'm right or not."

Sherlock smiled. "That's what Google is for, John. How many times have I woken you now?"

"Er … two, I think."

"What's three times seven?"

"Twenty-one."

"The letter three places before E in the alphabet?"

"What?" John's voice sounded surprised. "That's different. Um … B."

"Well done. Go back to sleep."

"Sherlock?"

He paused, door half-closed. "Yes, John?"

"Thank you, for tonight. For saving Ian. I … I don't know what I would have done…"

"You don't have to say it, John. I just … I didn't mean for that to happen."

"It wasn't your fault, Sherlock," came John's reassuring voice from the dark. "And you saved us both. That's what matters."

Sherlock just said, "See you in 115 minutes," and closed the door, but he paused outside, wondering how John could forgive him for very nearly causing the death of both him and his son.

It surprised him, how both the Watson-Brandons had worked their way into his life.

Stepping quietly across the hall, he edged Ian's door open, as he had the last two times he'd been up to wake John. Except, this time, Ian was not curled peacefully asleep, but was tossing his head on his pillow, mumbling and looking distressed.

A nightmare was certainly well within normal parameters after such a night as this, thought Sherlock, pausing at the threshold, uncertain what to do. As Ian mumbled, "No, you can't," Sherlock moved without thinking, reaching a hand out for the light switch and stepping forward to place his hand on the boy's shoulder, speaking his name.

With a gasp, Ian's eyes flew open, frantic for several long moments until his consciousness caught up. "Sherlock?"

"You were having a nightmare," Sherlock told him, careful to keep his voice soft and soothing.

Realization spread across the boy's face. "I was … about Dad. Is he…?"

"I just checked on him. He's fine. Everything's fine."

Ian pulled himself back against the headboard, pulling his knees close as he shook his head. "No, it isn't. It can't … I … I miss my mum. I want … and then when … and she pulled the trigger and I thought…"

Sherlock tried to follow the convoluted string of incomplete sentences, but had to admit he was out of his depth. (Trigger? What trigger had Shan pulled?) He didn't know what to say to reassure the boy, but reached forward and patted his hands where they were fisted together around his legs. "It's … bad … this happened, but you do know John wouldn't let anything happen to you?"

Ian nodded, but the motion was hesitant, as if he were being polite rather than convinced it was true, and Sherlock wondered what he could say to help. (Despite popular belief, he was well aware his social skills were inadequate for this conversation.)

"Did your father ever tell you about the night we met?" he asked.

"The study in pink?"

"That's the one," Sherlock said with a nod. "Did he tell you who shot the cabbie?"

Eyes wide, Ian shook his head.

"He did," Sherlock told him. "He believed my life was in danger and he saved me, even though he barely knew me. People underestimate your father, you know—even I did, at first. He looks so ordinary. He drinks enormous amounts of tea and wears jumpers that are almost cuddly … and yet, he is a soldier and a doctor. He'll do whatever he must to protect the people he cares about—even tonight. He was tied to a chair and fighting a concussion, but he still managed to save both of us. Never make the mistake of underestimating him. He can't control traffic accidents, but anything that's within his power to keep you safe, he will do."

Ian nodded, looking slightly comforted, but still … there was more. What had the boy said earlier? Something about … oh, of course.

"And it works both ways, of course. I've believed my entire life that I could only rely on myself, and it turns out that it's not true. Your father has proved himself reliable and surprisingly useful. I know that I'm not the most … considerate … person, but I find myself unable to consider any harm coming to him, to either of you. I'm finding that there is something to be said for being part of a … team … where we each have our strengths and we look out for each other."

"Me, too?" Ian's voice was small.

"Definitely," said Sherlock. "There are things in the world we have no control over, and I know life has shown you that already. I won't tell you everything will be sunshine and roses and everyone will live forever, because it's not true. But what I'm only just learning now myself is that none of us has to be alone—and that people find a way into your life even when you don't want them to. You are not and will never be alone, Ian. Your father would never allow it—even from the grave."

Ian snorted. "He'd come back to haunt me, just to keep that from happening."

"Ghosts aren't … oh, yes. Of course. You're right. If anybody could, he would. He constantly surprises me in other ways, I wouldn't put that past him as well." He stood up and lifted the covers, holding them until Ian scrunched back down, curling on his side as Sherlock lowered the duvet. "Get some sleep. You're the only one in the flat who gets the privilege of a full night's sleep tonight and your father will be irritable if you throw that away."

Ian nodded, looking much more relaxed as Sherlock moved back to the door. He flicked the light off and, as he reached for the doorknob, heard a soft "Good night, Sherlock" coming from the dark.

#

The next morning, Sherlock explained the case to John, pouring him a cup of tea in the sunlit kitchen. His flatmate looked tired from his broken sleep, but substantially better than he had the night before. His pupils were the same size and, while underscored by dark circles, the eyes looked clear and focused.

John was definitely tired, though, and walking stiffly. Not that he would acknowledge that. "We'll need to stop at the bank this morning," he said. "Not only do we have a cheque to claim, but there's a jade pin we should pick up, as well."

"You know where it is?"

"Of course," he said, "But first, I need to buy paint remover. Ian should be awake by the time I get back, don't you think?"

John lifted his eyebrows. "Hard to say. He's a teenager who was kidnapped last night. We might not see him for days."

Sherlock felt his own forehead crease as he considered that. John _was_ joking, wasn't he?

He excused himself from the flat fairly soon after that. This unusual compulsion to do things for John really needed to be nipped in the bud. It's not like the man was truly injured, after all, and hadn't Sherlock thoughtfully woken him at regular intervals throughout the night, preventing him from slipping into a coma? What on earth had inspired him to make tea? Although, of course, Sherlock had wanted tea for himself and—just this once—thought it would be a friendly gesture to pour some for John, out of consideration for his injuries. But it was a dangerous precedent to set.

Which was why he was now carrying a bag of paint remover. The unsightly paint needed to go, before it triggered traumatic memories for John or Ian. (Not Sherlock, though. Naturally the large, yellow reminders of the night before didn't bother him at all. Of course.) Besides, Mrs Hudson would need the solvent, assuming John didn't decide to clean the windows himself. Which he probably would, even though he was supposed to 'relax' today (something only boring people did).

Sherlock was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he almost didn't notice the black car following him. He glanced over and said, "Not now, Mycroft!" Really, couldn't his brother keep his big nose from his business just once?

Then he realized—that was not one of Mycroft's cars. Scenarios flooded his brain—was this another attempt of Shan's? Not thuggish enough for her, though. And that car. It almost looked familiar.

His feet had stopped while his mind raced, and when he looked over, he saw the driver had gotten out of the car and was walking around to the passenger side. He knew him. It was … "Stephens," he said.

The man nodded and opened the door, waiting patiently while Sherlock made his decision. He did have things to do today, but this would be too informative to pass up, and so he slid into the seat and waited patiently as the man walked back around to the driver's side.

Sherlock said nothing as they drove smoothly through traffic, busy noting where they were going and speculating on their destination.

It wasn't long before the car had stopped in front of an exclusive club whose name even Sherlock had heard of. It was all Sherlock could do to wait for Stephens to come open the door for him. He walked up to the front door and, giving his name, allowed himself to be ushered into a well-appointed parlour.

In a chair by the window, sat a man who looked like Sherlock imagined John would look in thirty years.

And so, as the man turned toward him, Sherlock gave a polite smile. "Mr Brandon, I presume?"

#


	7. Chapter 7

The man's face broke into a smile as he gestured Sherlock toward the chair across from him. "Mr Holmes. It's so good of you to accept my invitation. I've been wanting to meet you for some time."

"Thank you," said Sherlock sitting down and accepting the cup of tea poured for him. "I've wanted to meet you as well. Your son and grandson seem very fond of you."

"And I am very fond of them," Brandon said, leaning back in his chair as he sipped at his own cup. He was studying Sherlock, trying to measure him against some mental rule that only he knew. Sherlock wasn't fussed. He had had countless people take his measure over the years, and the only one who had ever gotten it right was his tailor. Even Mycroft got it wrong.

Though, he supposed, maybe John was close.

But, still, he was content to sit here while John's father studied him. It was only fair, after all, since Sherlock was making his own analysis.

Wealthy, obviously, which wasn't as much of a surprise as it would have been had he not known about the private driver. It still didn't match what he knew of John, though. Had he grown up surrounded by this kind of wealth? Or had that come later? No, he decided. John's father did not have the air of a man who had made himself rich. Nor did this club accept any members whose lineage went back less than three well-appointed generations.

"What do you see?" The other man asked after a time.

"Contradictions. Physically, there can be no question that you are John's father, but the rest of this doesn't fit," said Sherlock, resisting the urge to whine at the petulance in his voice. He waved his hand at the room. "Old money, obviously. Your speech patterns support that, as does the manner of dress. Your cufflinks are old, but your suit is relatively new, so there's money to keep the wardrobe current."

Finding comfort in the familiar act of deduction, he let the words flow, "In fact, wealth is nothing new to you, but your surroundings suggest old money. You would not be eligible otherwise and those old cufflinks have a crest on them, so the family has a history."

He paused, checking his host's reaction, but the man looked more amused than offended and just nodded, "Go on."

"The confusion arises from being unsure where John fits," Sherlock said. "The man wears jeans and wool sweaters, and was counting his pennies when we first met. He told me later that he had been paying support for Ian, but having come from this kind of upbringing, he would have a trust fund. Unlike my parents, you don't seem the type to hold it over John's head to ensure his good behaviour, so he should certainly have been able to afford a flat of his own. I suppose you could be estranged over the army or his divorce, but his own body language denies that. When Stephens picked us up from the hospital last month, John took it in stride—there was no tension or discomfort at seeing his father's driver."

"I'm impressed, Mr Holmes. That's quite extraordinary," John's father finally said. "All correct, too. We are an old family—older than the Holmes, even, I believe. Jonathan Brandon, at your service."

"Please, call me Sherlock," he said, trying not to stammer as he tried to cross-reference why that name sounded familiar.

The man just nodded. "Thank you. It's interesting about names, don't you think? How they define us? It's one of the reasons John dropped the his surname. You could think John was ashamed of us—or the other way around—but it's not true. He just always wanted to make his own way in the world, without relying on our name or money to prove himself."

"So, Watson…" Sherlock said.

John's father nodded. "He dropped the Brandon when he went to school and left it off when he joined the army. Along the way, of course, he assumed a certain level of camouflage, you could call it—his clothes, his accent. Though his mother insisted on a local school for him, so he grew up surrounded by a variety of accents. He was always a gifted mimic, my John. He can adapt his accent to just about any situation—I'm sure that came in handy in the army."

"That is one thing I've noticed about John. He is fiercely independent," Sherlock said. "Also protective, loyal, and brave."

"All of those things, yes." The other man nodded. "Sometimes foolishly so. I had hoped he would have burned off some of that recklessness in the army."

"And then he was shot, almost died, and instead of coming home to take up a quiet medical practice, ended up as my flatmate," Sherlock said. "Not exactly a restful retirement."

"No. No, it's not. And that was before Ian's mother was killed."

Sherlock watched as the other man took another sip of tea and waited. Was the man about to threaten him to keep away from John? If so, he must not know his son very well. Sherlock had known him for less than two months and knew that John was stubborn enough to make up his own mind.

He sat patiently, sipping at his quite good tea as he considered. It was true that John was stubborn, but he was protective. Given a choice between helping Sherlock solve cases (which gave John purpose and the adrenalin rush he needed) and keeping his son safe … Sherlock admitted the possibility John would leave.

The silence lengthened and Sherlock waited, even as his brain surged and raced, trying to find a way to make this work.

And all the while, John's father watched him. Accustomed though Sherlock was to scrutiny, this was different. The older man watched and measured with a sharp, knowing gaze, but unlike similar scrutinies from Mycroft or his father, this one was leavened by compassion.

Finally, Sherlock was the first to speak. "You are worried our lifestyle is too dangerous—for John, but more importantly for Ian."

John's father nodded.

"You know what happened last night, obviously," Sherlock said, and received another nod as confirmation. "If you're here to warn me off, you should know that it's John's decision, though it was never my intent to put him or Ian in danger."

"That's it? No remorse? No apologies?"

Sherlock kept his eyes level. "I've already expressed my regrets to both John and Ian. I don't see that I owe anyone else."

He braced himself for the anger that was no doubt coming, feeling a certain amount of resentment on his flatmate's behalf. John was a grown man, after all. He didn't need his father coming to fight his battles for him. Sherlock hadn't realized that John's father was as bad as Mycroft. How dare the man drag Sherlock here to scold him for something that had not even been his fault?

He was therefore surprised when John's father broke into a remarkably familiar grin. "I don't think I've ever met a member of the Holmes family with a sense of humour. Do you suppose that's genetic?"

"I … what?" Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd been taken aback quite so many times in a single conversation.

"I didn't bring you here to threaten you, Sherlock," he said, "I wanted to thank you. You saved both John and Ian last night, and I'm grateful."

Sherlock needed a moment to come up with an intelligible response to that. "To be fair, John saved both of us as well. It was his kick that diverted the arrow."

"Part of what makes you a good team, then," the older man said, and then gave a small laugh. "You really did expect an ultimatum, didn't you? Though, considering your family … it's something your father would have done, so I suppose you come by your suspicions honestly. But no, you risked your life to save theirs, and I'm grateful. Although," he added, " While John is capable of taking care of himself, I'd prefer if Ian were kept away from murderers until at least his sixteenth birthday?"

Sherlock just blinked. So much new information to absorb. He meant to comment on Ian's safety, but instead, blurted out, "You knew my father?"

"Oh, yes. I don't know if you could have called us friends, exactly, but we did know each other. In fact, he did me a favour about twenty years ago."

There was a gleam in his eye as he said it and Sherlock saw it for the challenge it was. A favour that his father could have done for this man, two decades ago … "John's records," he said, realizing.

Again, that familiar smile spread across the face opposite. "Yes. He set up the paperwork for Dr John Watson to keep his professional records separate from those of John Brandon. As I understand it, it wasn't so much that he set up a second identity or anything nefarious, just that anyone looking into the background of John Watson would find everything they expected to find duplicated under that name—birth certificate, school records, all of it. He obviously did a good job of it, since I understand your brother not only didn't find anything suspicious when he did his own background check, but didn't spot the connection to the Brandons, either. That might have changed after Ian moved in, of course, since his name _is_ Brandon. I've learned never to underestimate a Holmes where information is concerned."

Sherlock was unaccustomed to feeling this flummoxed in any conversation. The idea that his father had helped John and his father hide his wealthy connections was … interesting. What had Brandon done in return? He wondered if John knew.

"So … you know what John's been doing?"

"I even read his blog," said the other man, still with that charming smile. "I can read between the lines, too—like when a murderous cabbie conveniently drops dead. My son is a soldier and a doctor, after all, and while I may not be as observant as you, Sherlock, I know my son. I know what kind of shape he was in when he returned from Afghanistan, and how moving in with you did him nothing but good. You could have balked at letting my grandson move in with you, but you didn't. So far as I can tell, you and John seem like you're on your way to being good friends. It would be foolish to interfere with that, and I am not a fool."

Sherlock was struck with an unusual urge to say thank you. Was this what normal parents were like? Supportive of their children's decisions, even if they disagreed with them?

Instead, though, he just nodded. "That puts you ahead of my brother, who can never resist interfering about anything and everything."

"He's in the right line of work, then," John's father said. "After all, somebody has to do it. He'll learn eventually that there are times to interfere and times to let things go. He's young, still."

Sherlock tried to hide his smirk at Mycroft being described as 'young.' His brother had never been young, he was certain. There had been the period of time when he was physically undeveloped and officially classifiable as a child, but mentally? He had been at least forty his entire life, Sherlock was sure of it.

The visit didn't last much longer after that. As Sherlock was driven back to the flat, he wondered if Mycroft's chats with John ever went this smoothly. He didn't believe his brother ever served tea, for one thing, and as carefully as he had watched, he hadn't detected any real threat, no overt or covert warnings not to allow John or Ian to be endangered again.

No, the whole thing had come across as a polite visit.

Extraordinary.

#

John was napping on the couch when his phone rang. This really wasn't helping his headache, he thought with a groan as he looked at the screen. He gave another groan when he saw the name of the caller. "Good morning, Father."

"_Did I wake you, John?_"

"A bit. I'm trying to get rid of a headache."

"_Concussions will do that to you._"

Oh. "You heard about that?"

"_I might not be as omniscient as your flatmate's brother, but I do have my sources, John. How are you?_"

"I'm fine, really," John said. "And more importantly, so is Ian. He's still asleep."

"_It was a harrowing night for him, I would think._"

John's mouth was dry. "Yes. He seemed okay, but … I'm keeping an eye on him."

"_Is this going to be a regular thing, John?_"

"Ian being in danger? Christ, I hope not," John said. "I don't think I could bear it."

"_Indeed._" His father's voice was as dry now as John's mouth felt. "_It's not easy, knowing your child is in peril._"

"No, no it's not." John paused, suddenly realizing how his father must have felt the entire time he'd been in Afghanistan. Though, his father hadn't actually seen him in danger, had never seen him tied to a chair with a giant crossbow pointed at him. No, he'd just had to sit by the phone, fearing the worst for years at a time. "I'm sorry."

He could hear the amusement as his father asked, "_About Ian, or about the army?_"

"Both?" John said. "I never realized how hard that must have been for you."

"_It was different, son. It's not like you were a child when you joined the army, and you were a doctor—you should have been safe._" There was a pause. "_And you kept Ian safe last night. That's what matters._"

"If you say so," John said, unconvinced. "But he wouldn't have been in danger at all if it weren't for me."

"_Maybe not, but he's growing up. You can't wrap him in cotton wool forever,_" his father said. "_God knows it didn't work for you._"

"Me?"

"_Oh, yes. You were impossibly independent, and were always throwing yourself into dangerous situations—climbing ancient trees, walking on the roof … sometimes I think it was a miracle you made it to the age of ten._"

John laughed. "I can't have been that bad…"

"_Trust me, John. You were. I just thought we'd missed that with Ian._"

"Maybe it's Sherlock who's the bad influence," John suggested, with a laugh, but then sobered. "Or maybe it is me. Maybe this was a mistake. I can barely make sound decisions for myself, much less for Ian."

"_You're not giving yourself enough credit. You're doing fine, and Ian is adapting well. He misses his mother, of course, but your flatmate has provided a good distraction._"

"I don't think Sherlock would appreciate being considered a distraction," John said.

"_Maybe not, but I think he is adapting well, too._"

"You think…" John stopped, struck by a sudden thought. "Father, when did you meet Sherlock?"

"_Why, just this morning,_" came the reply. "_It's one of the reasons I called, in fact. I didn't want you to accuse me of sneaking behind your back, kidnapping your friends … that's best left to other people._"

"Like Sherlock's brother, you mean."

"_Exactly_."

"So … what did you say to him?" John asked. His father hadn't threatened Sherlock, had he?

"_Nothing you need to worry about, John. I wanted to introduce myself—and thank him for saving your life last night._" There was a chuckle down the phone line. "_Stephens said that he was quite rude because he thought it was Mycroft's car at first. Does his brother make a habit of showing up unexpectedly?_"

John shook his head, and couldn't help but smile. "His brother has a habit of random kidnappings. Did I ever tell you about our first meeting? He had every pay phone on the block ring as I walked by and then showed off by manipulating the CCTV cameras before having his car pull up. We ended up at a deserted warehouse … if it wasn't beneath him, I'd think he'd been watching too many James Bond movies."

"_He didn't … threaten you, did he?_

"No, no," John said, hastening to soothe the worried tone to his father's voice. "He just wanted to check up on me, make sure I wouldn't be a bad influence on his little brother. He tried offering money for me to spy on Sherlock for him. He even had my therapist's notes … but he didn't know about you."

_Sherlock didn't either_," his father said, amused now. "_I'm sorry I couldn't capture the look on his face for you._"

"So … he knows now, then," John said.

"_Only about the money. I gave him tea at the club, though, so I'm sure he'll be curious now. I figured you'd want to tell him about the title yourself. I wouldn't wait, though._

John swallowed. Part of him had enjoyed Sherlock not knowing, but he knew his father was right. "Right because if Mycroft finds out..."

"If Mycroft finds out what, John?"

He turned to find the man himself standing in the doorway. He gave him a nod and waved him toward the chairs as he said, "Speak of the devil. Father, I need to go."

"_He overheard, did he?_"

"That's right. This headache just isn't going away." He disconnected as his father chuckled, and gave Mycroft a polite smile. "Sherlock's not here right now."

"I know," Mycroft said, standing by the fireplace, leaning on his umbrella in much the same way he had at the warehouse when they met. "I wanted to speak to you."

John lifted one eyebrow and tried to think. If Mycroft found out about his father before Sherlock did, he would never hear the end of it.

Did he really have to have this conversation right now? Why did people keep bothering him this morning? Didn't they know about the concussion? He was supposed to be resting.

"What about, Mycroft?"

"It has come to my attention that you weren't entirely forthright to me at our meeting. When were you planning on telling me?"

Oh, crap.

#


	8. Chapter 8

"Tell you what, Mycroft?"

The taller man just looked at him, down that long nose in the too-familiar way, but John wasn't having any of it today. If Mycroft had found out that his father was an Earl, then fine. Headache or not, he wasn't going to back down.

Mycroft was just saying that he didn't know how John had expected to keep this a secret, when Ian came stumbling down the stairs. "Dad? How are you this morning?" he asked as he came into the room, stopping short at the unfamiliar face.

"Other than a headache, I'm fine," John told him. "You?"

"I'm fine," Ian said automatically, eyes on Mycroft.

John looked between the two of them and sighed. Ian looked surprised at finding a stranger in his living room, but Mycroft? He looked utterly floored. John stifled a grin—at least he didn't know everything. "Ian, this is Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is my son, Ian."

"How do you do?" Ian said politely as John tried not to smirk at the flummoxed look on Mycroft's face.

"I'm quite well, thank you," Mycroft said automatically. "You find me at a disadvantage, though. I'm afraid I didn't know of your existence until this morning."

Instead of looking offended, Ian seemed impressed. "Grandfather kept it quiet that long? But Sherlock said you knew everything?"

"Sherlock exaggerates," Mycroft told him. "Though I would have expected to know that a child had moved into the flat."

That last sentence had been directed at John, who kept an innocent look on his face. "I hope you weren't expecting me to tell you, Mycroft. Not that it was a secret, or anything, but Ian's been here for almost a month. I would have thought you would have noticed by now."

"I've been out of the country, and somehow my staff didn't feel a young child living with my brother was worth mentioning."

"Hey!" protested Ian.

"He's fourteen, Mycroft. Not exactly a toddler," said John. "And he's not some random child, either. He's my _son_. It's not really any of your business where he lives—as long as Sherlock doesn't object and Ian is happy, there is no problem. Is there?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "One can't help but wonder how you're affording this, John. Your finances were quite constrained when we last spoke."

John gave a sharp nod. "That's because at the time, I was paying alimony and child support. But that changed when Ian's mother died. I no longer need to pay for two residences."

"There was no record of that in your file, John," Mycroft said, musing. "And then, you choose to stay here with my brother? He's not the easiest person to live with, as I know all too well, and not necessarily the best role model for a young … man."

"A teenager can't have too many good influences, Mycroft," John told him. "And Ian hasn't complained about the arrangements—though he still lobbies to get 221C for his own use, which isn't going to happen, so don't even ask, Ian. After last night, you're lucky you've got a separate room."

Ian looked horrified at the thought as Mycroft asked, "Last night?"

"Is last night," John told him firmly. "You've heard the expression all's well that ends well, haven't you? We're all fine. Ian, are you hungry?"

At his son's nod, John turned and headed toward the kitchen, leaving Mycroft looking almost owlish as if he couldn't believe how cavalier John was being about his son's life. "But … he was almost killed," he said, following them.

John really didn't want to think about that, but he nodded. "But he wasn't. I'm not saying it wasn't dangerous, or that I'm happy about it, but … he was with his mother when she was killed, too, and she was just driving her car. Between medicine and the army, one thing I've learned is that life is unpredictable." He reached into the refrigerator for milk and poured a glass for Ian before filling the kettle. "As long as this works for the three of us, it's all that matters."

"Why didn't you tell me you had a son?"

"Was it relevant?" John asked him, ignoring Ian's chortle. "I mean, beside the fact that you'd just kidnapped me and seemed to have far too much knowledge about me as it was—how was I to know you'd missed out on my family? And anyway, you were checking into my suitability as a flatmate and, at the time, Ian lived with his mother and there was no plan to change that. It's not like I'm ashamed of him, after all. Quite the contrary. But he's really none of your business."

"He is if he lives with my brother," Mycroft said, and John heard the steel in the tone.

"You sound as if you think my fourteen-year old could be a threat."

"If he started … experimenting … as teens do, then yes," Mycroft told him.

And that was going too far, thought John. It wasn't bad enough the man was accosting him while he recovered from a concussion and a kidnapping, that he was doing it while Sherlock was out and _in front of his son_, but now he was going to imply that Ian would be a drug risk? John could practically feel his blood pressure rising, and the look of shock on Ian's face just pushed him over the edge.

"Get out."

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, get out," John repeated. "I've put up with a lot of high-handedness from you and your brother, Mycroft, but if you're going to imply my son is a _risk factor_ for Sherlock's being clean? That's beyond the pale, and I refuse to listen to it. I'm asking you to leave."

Mycroft smirked. "There's no need to be rude, John. I'm just trying to make sure no trouble arises. I didn't say your son was a threat, just that it wasn't beyond possibility that his … situation … could lead to future problems."

John tried to unclench his jaw. "And I said to get out. Don't go borrowing trouble, Mycroft."

"Indeed, that's something important to remember isn't it, John? Especially for a man who was so alone not very long ago. It would be a shame to see you struggling that way again."

John was furious. "I was never alone, Mycroft, just lonely. There's a difference. You'd be surprised how many people I can turn to if I need help, though your concern, of course, is appreciated." He saw the scepticism on Mycroft's face and barely resisted the temptation to smirk right back at him. "You didn't even know I had a child, Mycroft, or an ex-wife. What other facts might you have missed while you were indulging your flights of fancy about the supposed drug-filled future my delinquent son is likely to have, coming from a broken home as he has? I swear, I don't understand you. You think you're so superior, but … good God. This is exactly the kind of attitude I've spent my whole life trying to escape. Now, please, don't make me tell you again."

He saw a shadow of doubt cross the other man's face, but he just gave a nod. "It was nice meeting you, Ian. Good day, John." And then he was gone.

#

John turned back to his son, and was relieved to see he was more amused than insulted now. "He doesn't know us very well, does he, Dad?"

"Not at all. And nowhere near as well as he thinks he does," John said, agreeing. "He doesn't know about your grandfather, you know."

"Really?"

John was just opening his mouth when he heard Sherlock coming up the stairs. "Neither does Sherlock, but I'm about to tell him. I don't know if this is going to go well or not, so it's your call as to whether you stay or leave right now."

"Well, I am kind of hungry."

"That's why you're supposed to be eating your breakfast," John said, wishing it were time to take more painkillers for his headache. This had not exactly been a restful morning. He looked up to see Sherlock striding into the flat, plastic bag of shopping swinging from his hand. "That took you a while."

Sherlock's face was practically gleaming with interest as said, "I had an unexpected detour."

For a moment, John considered playing dumb and pretending not to know about his father's interference, but decided he was too tired. "Yes, I heard you met my father."

For a moment, Sherlock looked disappointed, but rallied. "He told you?"

"He thought a heads-up was appropriate," John said. "He didn't threaten you, I hope?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. As if Mycroft would let your father get away with that, even if he is a wealthy man. And, kudos, John, for keeping that secret so long. I'm impressed."

"Yeah, well … there's more, actually," John told him, feeling almost embarrassed. "What did he tell you about our family? Or, more important, what have you deduced?"

"That your family is far more powerful than I suspected, and goes back far enough for your father to belong to that particular club. That you dropped the surname because you didn't want to rely on your family's reputation for your own successes. That you grew up wealthy…" He paused there, as if still trying to assimilate that knowledge.

John tried a grin. "Scary to think about, isn't it? That our backgrounds are more similar than you thought?"

"Not only that, apparently our fathers knew each other," Sherlock said. "When you decided to drop your surname? Apparently my father helped modify the records."

"I didn't know that. Your father? So it's his fault that Mycroft didn't know?" John asked, delighted.

"Indeed," said Sherlock, with his own wide grin. "I think I may need to buy your father a Christmas present, John."

"He enjoys a good scotch," John told him. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

"He didn't seem overly happy with the fact that Mycroft had kidnapped you. Stymying Mycroft's insatiable information gathering, however briefly, seems reasonable payback. Mycroft hates being uninformed even more than I do."

John nodded, mentally bracing himself. "Which is why I need to tell you something else, right now."

Sherlock stilled. "What's that?"

"My family's not just old, Sherlock," said John. "It's … well. My father … He's the Earl of Undershaw."

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted, even as his eyes flickered as he absorbed this new information. "So … that makes you…"

"Next in line," said John. "With Ian after me. I know I didn't tell you, but…"

He stopped as Sherlock lifted his hand, waiting as patiently as he could.

"But Mycroft doesn't know?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Not yet."

"So, you not only successfully hid your own _noble_ background from me, despite my not inconsiderable observational skills, but from Mycroft as well?" John just nodded. "Why, John, that's wonderful! I knew you had hidden depths, but … this takes my breath away."

John felt so relieved. "Not only that, Mycroft didn't know about Ian until this morning."

He'd never seen Sherlock look so delighted. "Really? How do you know that?"

"Oh, well, he stopped by—I'm surprised you didn't pass on the stairs. He more or less asked what I could possibly be thinking, letting a child live with you, and when I said it was none of his business, he basically said that it was because teenagers experiment with drugs, which would be a risk to _you_."

He couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's anticipatory grin. "What did you do?"

"I told him to get out," said John. "He said he'd hate for me to be as poor and alone again as I was when I met you, at which point I told him he had no idea—and pointed out that he hadn't even known I had an ex-wife or a son, so what else might he have missed? I rather expect he's going to be doing some serious digging today. My only regret is I won't see his face when he learns about the title."

"Well, let's call him back," said Sherlock. "You can tell him while I watch. Ian could make popcorn. It will be enormously entertaining."

John couldn't deny that was probably true, but they were obviously out of time, because just then, there was a tap at the door.

#

Mycroft stood in the doorway. "Sherlock," he said, "Why did you just get out of a car belonging to the Earl of Undershaw? Please don't tell me you're insulting the nobility now."

Sherlock could barely contain his glee. "You were sitting in your car running his plates, weren't you?"

"Why, Sherlock?" his brother repeated.

"How is this your business, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, just as John said, "I thought I asked you to leave, Mycroft."

Mycroft just looked annoyed. "Yes, John, but this time I'm here to see my brother. And, Sherlock, I thought you knew. Everything to do with you is my business. Especially if it concerns the Earl of Undershaw."

Sherlock noted John's curiosity at that and he was unsurprised to see Ian at the doorway. "What do I care about the Earl of Undershoe, or whatever it is?" he asked. "I only care about cases. You know that."

"What. Case?" Mycroft asked, intent.

"Why do you care?" Sherlock asked again. "I am aware of your general reluctance to offend anyone with a title, naturally, but what difference does it make if it's this Earl rather than any other?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, considering, then said, "Father told me once that he'd done him a favour and, if ever asked, I was not to go digging into his files."

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow. "And you listened? That's hardly like you, Mycroft."

"Well, I may have glanced at the file," his brother said with an unabashed shrug. "It wasn't something scandalous or illegal. Just something about a son who disappeared—not in a way you would care about. It wasn't a crime. Just that he wanted to mask his identity when he went to university and … joined … the army…"

He stopped, staring now at John and then glancing over at Ian, a sudden realization crossing his face and Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had been so entertained as Mycroft asked, "What did you say your son's name was, John?"

#


	9. Chapter 9

"What did you say your son's name was, John?" asked Mycroft, looking stunned.

"Ian David Brandon," said John, who looked like he was struggling to keep his face straight. "Mary wanted to name him after me, I wanted to honour my grandfather, so we compromised. At least we skipped Hamish."

"Thank God," he heard Ian mutter from the door.

"But … you …"

Sherlock's mouth was twitching, too, with his delight at his brother's bewilderment. "Since you asked, Mycroft, I was, in fact, talking to the Earl about his son—who's not as lost as one might think. Or as alone," he added, a hint of steel in his voice.

Mycroft was still struggling to find words, and neither John nor Sherlock were eager to jump in and help him.

Finally, Ian asked, "He's not going to try to get me to move out again, is he? Because Grandfather's house is boring."

"You're not going anywhere," said John, "And I'm sure Mycroft wouldn't dream of asking, would you, Mycroft? I'm sure neither of our fathers would appreciate that—though I admit, I hadn't known it was your father mine asked for help. He just told me it was taken care of."

"But … why would you do that?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock was glad he did, because he desperately wanted the answer to that himself. John had grown up in a wealthy home, much like he and Mycroft had, but had turned his back on it all. Successfully. Legally, even, and apparently without rancour. Sherlock was almost jealous.

"You know I'm stubborn," John finally said. "Believe me, I've heard my father complain about that my whole life. Stubborn. Independent. It frustrated both of us—he couldn't understand why I wanted to go my own way, I couldn't understand why he insisted I just follow the family traditions. Luckily for me, my father's open-minded enough that he was willing to let me go my own way, more or less."

He sighed, hands twitching for an absent cup of tea, before rubbing at his head. He still wasn't recovered from last night's ordeal, thought Sherlock as John continued, "We agreed that I would go my own way for university, and he didn't object—much—when I joined the army, either, but I know he hoped I'd put that aside once I got married, which I did in my own name, of course. But…" He looked over at Ian, "We loved each other, but Mary and I were never really the right match. For a while, the time apart helped, but finally—the marriage fell apart, and more and more, I was spending all my time as John Watson, not John Brandon, future Lord Undershaw … it sounds more complicated than it was, really. It's just that I was practically living two different lives, so I had separate names to match. I don't think most of the family has any idea that I spend most of my time going by John Watson."

Ian shook his head. "Mum told me when I was little that it was your secret identity, and I couldn't tell anyone. When I was really little, I thought Captain Watson had a cape and superpowers." The words were barely out of his mouth when he winced, obviously wishing he had kept that detail to himself, but John looked flattered.

"No cape, but the nurses used to tell me my scalpel was magic," John told him. "And anyway, it made life simpler, keeping my lives separate. It was never meant as a deception, really, just a way to make my own name."

"And your father approved all of this?" Sherlock could hear the disapproval in Mycroft's voice. That would never have been allowed in the Holmes household. There were obligations and expectations, and woe betide anyone who failed to live up to them—as Sherlock had learned the hard way. His lack of concern for social conventions and his experiments with drugs had made his family apply draconian restrictions on him and his trust fund as they tried to control him. They had never once considered that he was 'acting out' from a sense of boredom and frustration at the restrictions already in place. The more they tightened their grip, the harder he had struggled.

The idea of gracefully letting him go his own way would never have occurred to them.

John, meanwhile, nodded. "He wanted me to be happy, and it's not like I was trying to evade my obligations. Quite the contrary, I was making it possible to live my own, unorthodox life without it reflecting back on the family. If the marriage had worked out better, things might have gone differently, but … I have no regrets there, either. I got Ian out of the deal, after all."

"What do you tell your family, though?" Mycroft asked, still bemused. "When you get together for the holidays, and they ask what you've been doing?"

John shrugged. "Oh, they know I'm a doctor, so I mostly just say I'm busy and can't talk about my patients and then ask how they're doing, which pretty much fills up the rest of the conversation. It's not like they're preternaturally observant like the two of you. I don't think anybody's ever caught on to the army thing, which, don't even say it, is appallingly blind by your standards."

"But—your gunshot? How did you explain that?"

Sherlock watched John's eyes narrow and said, "It hasn't come up yet, has it, John?"

John shook his head. "At least not in my presence. I haven't been back that long, remember."

"They were at Mum's funeral, though," Ian said. "And you were limping a bit. I heard Uncle David wondering about that."

"David Brandon?" Mycroft asked, surprised, and then he shook his head. "Of course. He would be your cousin, John?"

John nodded. "Yeah, you know him?"

Mycroft was nodding, but Sherlock was uninterested in John's family. He was still trying to parse how a wealthy, powerful family not entirely unlike his own would be willing to let its oldest son go like that. He had met Jonathan Brandon just over an hour ago, and the man had seemed sane enough.

John caught his eye then and said, "You're overthinking it, Sherlock. It's really not complicated. My father and I came to a compromise about what I wanted and what needed to be done. It's not like it's a deep, dark secret or anything. It was just something I choose not to tell everyone. You don't go advertising the Holmes family history when you're dealing with Donovan, or the homeless network, do you? It just gets in the way of the work—especially when you're trying to provide medical care to a bunch of army grunts. John Watson is just a retired army doctor. He and John Brandon don't exactly move in the same circles, but both of them meet their responsibilities—just, usually not on the same continent."

Mycroft looked thoughtful. "That's all well and good, but why would you have continued your … secret identity when you came home?"

John's voice was weary as he answered. "It's not like it's an assumed identity, Mycroft. All my professional credentials are as John Watson, and invalided home or not, I'm not about to give up my medical license or pretend the last twenty years never happened. At some point I'll have to go through the paperwork to merge the two back together, I suppose, but I've been busy. It's not like John Brandon has had so many obligations that take up a lot of time."

Sherlock noted the way John was leaning his head on his hand now, and decided this had gone on long enough. Ian appeared to feel the same way, because he had turned back to the kitchen to pour John some tea. "Is it okay to drink tea with a concussion?" he asked, voice worried.

John smiled as he took the cup. "If it's not, the British nation would have collapsed centuries ago. Thank you."

"You do look tired, John," Mycroft said.

Sherlock actually felt amused. As if Mycroft would have been concerned about that before learning of John's heritage? "Yes," he told his brother, "Let's think why, shall we? Having someone threaten and harass his son while he deals with a concussion and the after-effects of being abducted and nearly killed last night? When he's supposed to be resting?"

"I didn't harass…"

"You did, though," Ian piped up. "You implied I was a bad influence and that you could make Dad lonely again. Or, that you would 'hate to see him' as alone as he was. Except, he wouldn't be, because he's got me."

Sherlock saw John's lips curve into a smile, but he didn't say anything, just sat and sipped his tea.

It was almost worrying.

Except, it was hard to be worried when so amused by the glare Ian was sending Mycroft's way—a justified one, Sherlock thought, since Mycroft had so badly put his foot in it this time. It was always such a pleasure to see him make a social misstep, and the idea that he'd been misreading John from day one? It was delicious (and took the sting out of his own failure).

He knew John thought so, too, because he had been enjoying this conversation, too … right up until his energy level bottomed out and his skin took on that unhealthy grey tinge.

And so, with a pointed look at the way his flatmate was slumped in his chair, Sherlock said, "Exactly, so you can toddle off, Mycroft. Everything is under control—unless you'd like me to call the Earl for you, so you can insult him directly?"

"Not amusing, Sherlock," his brother said, looking down his nose even as he glanced at John's flagging self. "I can see that I'm not needed, though. Good day, John, Ian."

"Bye, Mycroft," said John, with a wave. "Thanks for stopping by."

Sherlock relished the look on Mycroft's face as he took one last look at the exhausted doctor before turning away, lips tight, to leave the three of them in peace.

#

**Months Later**

"You have your present for your grandfather?" John asked as he straightened his tie.

"And for cousin Sara, too," Ian said, making a face. "Are you sure you don't want to wear your uniform?"

John looked at his son's reflection in the mirror. He thought they'd settled this. "Why is this so important to you?"

"Because …Well, it's Christmas, and you're home for good, so it doesn't have to be a secret anymore. It's not like Mum's here to be upset by it and … Sherlock's coming, so … won't people wonder?"

"I told you, Ian. It's not a secret. I don't mind if you tell people. I'm proud of the work I did in the army, but I'm not in the army anymore, and the work I do with Sherlock doesn't exactly require a uniform. What difference does it make?"

Sherlock strolled into the room, adjusting his jacket. "Isn't it obvious, John? For some reason, the boy's proud of you."

"Ta very much," John said, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out.

"You've already said you were willing to 'come out' with your secret identity, but who's going to believe in the Adventures of Captain Watson without at least a visual aid?"

"Yeah, Dad," said Ian. "You don't want people to think you're ashamed of it, do you? And, how often do you get a chance to wear it?"

John sighed, looking at the two of them. "You don't really care about the rest of the family," he finally said. "You just want to see it for yourselves."

"What can we say, John? We're proud of you."

"Fine," John said as he turned for the door, spotting the pleased look the other two exchanged. "I knew you were a nag, Sherlock, but you're obviously a bad influence on my son."

"No, I'm not," Sherlock protested. "If anything, it's the other way around."

"Whatever. You two work that out while I go change. I hope you like the smell of mothballs."

#

It turned out, his uniform didn't smell of mothballs at all. Apparently, sometime in the last month, they had gotten it to a dry cleaner without his knowing. He wasn't sure if he should feel flattered or manipulated.

Still, it was oddly familiar to wear his dress uniform again. He had never spent much time in it, of course—basic camo and medical scrubs had been his daily uniform—but still, being captain in the army had been how he identified himself for so long. Even if this particular uniform hadn't been worn often, it still represented a part of his life that he was particularly proud of.

Luckily, running after Sherlock had kept him in shape, because the dress uniform still fit. He didn't dawdle, knowing how impatient the two downstairs could get, but he couldn't help taking a moment at the mirror to make sure everything was in place, self-consciously noting how much straighter he stood, trying to decide if the ribbons were strictly necessary.

"John!" came Sherlock's voice up the stairs. "You were the one who was worried about being late."

"And then you two decided I needed a wardrobe change," John called back, brushing at a piece of lint on his sleeve. It'll have to do, he decided, reaching for his phone and keys and hurrying for the stairs.

"Dad," Ian breathed as he came down the stairs. "You look amazing."

"Yes, yes," said Sherlock, reaching for his coat. "Very impressive. Let's go."

John smiled to himself. He had seen Sherlock's eyes skimming the details of his uniform and was sure he hadn't missed a thing—assuming he didn't already know every detail of John's service. That was one thing that had changed after The Pool. (He couldn't help the capitalization, even in his head. Wearing a bomb is just automatically one of those All-Caps kind of events, wasn't it?) Anyway, Sherlock had paid a little more attention to John and Ian's well-being since then. Since the Blind Banker case, really, when he found out about the Earl thing—but John knew his flatmate well enough to know that Sherlock's concern predated that knowledge, if only by a few hours. That night of danger had cemented a friendship forged while chasing a murderous cabbie—Moriarty's game weeks later had only proven its depth.

No, John thought as he climbed into the cab, Sherlock might not have made a fuss over his uniform, but he wouldn't have helped set this up if he hadn't been interested.

Nobody mentioned the uniform in the car, and it wasn't until he was taking his coat off at his father's that it was brought up. "New suit, John?" asked his father wryly as he met them at the door.

"Not quite. It was Ian's idea—and Sherlock's. Apparently it's time for my secret identity to come out."

His father's eyebrows lifted. "And about time, I'd say. It looks good on you. Ian, my lad, do me a favour and go check on the mince pies? Sherlock, glad you could come."

"Thank you for having me," said Sherlock, handing over the bottle of aged, single-malt scotch he had brought along. They made polite conversation for several minutes (even Sherlock), while John tried not to fidget with the collar of his tunic. He was just starting to relax over the Scotch his father handed him when he heard an outraged, "John Brandon! Don't tell me you've enlisted!"

He winced briefly before smoothing his face into a smile as he turned. "Aunt Susan, it's good to see you. And, no, I haven't enlisted—more like retired. May I introduce my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes?"

She barely nodded at an amused Sherlock as she stared at John. "What do you mean, retired?"

"Left the service," John said, "About eight months ago, now."

"Left the … but, John? When did you join the … what is that … the army?"

"About fifteen years ago, Aunt Susan. It was just something we kept quiet…"

"Fifteen years!" He tried not to wince again at the piercing note stabbing his eardrums. "Did your father know?"

To John's relief, he saw his father coming and waited for him to join them, saying, "Of course I did. He was a captain in the RAMC when he … left last Spring. I'm very proud of him. Now, come along, Susan, let me get you a drink."

He led her away and John turned to meet Sherlock's amused gaze. "Yes, very funny. This is going to be so much fun tonight."

Sherlock smiled at him. "Ian thought so. I think he got tired of not being able to brag about you properly to his friends."

John snorted. "Right. Because teenagers brag about their parents all the time."

"Of course not, John, but you can't blame them. Most of their parents are insipidly dull—not super-hero material."

"Don't you start now," John said, the warning clear in his voice.

But before Sherlock could say anything, he heard his cousin David come in. "Good Lord, is this supposed to be a fancy dress, party? Nobody said. Hello John, old man," he said, walking up to them and running his eyes up and down John's uniform. "That's quite the costume you've got there, though I should tell you that real soldiers take offence at civilians wearing honours they haven't actually won."

John glanced down at his ribbons. "Luckily, that won't be a problem. How are you doing, David?"

"How am I … John. I'm telling you, it's mildly offensive, not that we have any military chaps in the family to rag you on it, but still—I work with military types all the time, and they're really very sensitive about this sort of thing. At least take off the medals."

John ignored that and gestured to Sherlock. "This is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my cousin David Brandon, who works at the palace."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "We've met. He knows Mycroft."

David gave a discreet nod. "Yes, I do. And you're sharing digs with John, here?"

"Wait, how long ago did you two meet?" John asked as Sherlock nodded.

"Mycroft recommended him for a job … well, I really can't go into details," David said, temporizing.

Sherlock, never one for equivocation, said, "The Woman, John."

Now it was John's turn to be surprised. "That was David? That was you? And here I thought I only had Mycroft to thank for that fiasco."

"What do you mean?"

"The Adler case," John said, "Where I almost got shot and Sherlock was almost killed by a booby-trapped safe, just before being drugged senseless. Thanks a bunch for that, David."

"But … Sherlock you were supposed to be discreet," David said, nearly stammering.

"And so he is—some of the time, anyway—but since I'm his assistant…"

"Colleague."

"Fine, colleague, but the point is if Sherlock's working a case, then usually so am I."

David looked utterly speechless, as Sherlock said, "In regard to John's uniform … you say you work with the military, so I'm surprised you don't recognize the real thing when you see it."

David looked between them, confused, as John nodded. "Captain John Watson, RAMC, retired," he said crisply. "Do you want my serial number, too? I'm afraid I left my dog tags at home."

"But … John? How is that possible?"

"I went to school, joined up, and spent the next fifteen years in the army," John told him. "I left just before Mary died, God rest her."

David looked stunned. "Wait … did you say Watson?" He turned to look at Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes … and John _Watson_? That's you—with the blog?"

Even more amused now, John nodded. "You've read it?"

"Of course, all part of the background check when Mycroft recommended Sherlock." He shook his head. "I can't believe that's you. How did you keep this a secret all these years?"

John shrugged. "Just didn't say anything. It wasn't a secret, exactly, but I enlisted under Watson instead of Brandon, and it was easier to keep it separate. I didn't want to worry anyone. Father knew, that was enough. Enough about me, though. What's new with you? How did you get involved with The Woman?"

For a moment, David looked horrified, but then his better nature stepped up and he laughed. "I didn't, sad to say, but you actually met her?"

"I did," John told him, "And in quite a remarkable outfit, too. Just a pair of high heels, earrings, and nothing else until she added Sherlock's coat a bit later. Come to think of it, you never did explain how you got that back," he said, turning to Sherlock.

Before Sherlock could answer, though, Ian came sloping over, a mince pie in each hand. "Here, Dad. I knew you wouldn't want to wait until after. I brought one for you, too, Sherlock."

"That's my boy," John said, biting into his pie with delight. "You remember your Uncle David, don't you?"

"Of course. How are you, Uncle David?"

"I'm well, Ian. And you? Enjoying your Christmas?" David's voice had softened.

John was momentarily concerned, but Ian just nodded. "Dad and Sherlock keep me busy—and sometimes even let me help on a case, though they've gotten boring about it."

"Boring? Because I'd rather you not get killed?"

"I'm not the one who almost got shot—again," Ian said, protesting.

"No, you were almost skewered."

"But I wasn't."

David's head was going back and forth like he was at a tennis match, but finally he asked, "Wait, John … you were shot?"

He shrugged. "It's not a big deal."

His efforts at down-playing it, though, were for nothing when Ian said, "It forced you out of the army. You almost died. That is a big deal."

"It was at the time, but it's not now," John said. "And so far as I'm concerned, it was a good thing, because it meant I was here and not in Afghanistan when your mother … well, anyway, it's not party conversation. Do you think these mince pies are as good as usual? I've gotten used to Mrs Hudson's."

"You're not denigrating Mrs Hudson's mince pies, are you, John?" Sherlock asked him.

"Oh, no. All her baking is excellent … but that doesn't mean that Mrs McTavish doesn't have an edge where mince pies are concerned. Mrs Hudson's are good, but Mrs McTavish's are sublime."

The conversation devolved into a debate about baked goods then, and then another relative was asking about the uniform, and before John knew it, the evening had flown by. He even started to enjoy the shocked look on people's expressions as he explained that he'd been in the army for fifteen years—though he did try to avoid talking about the reason he left, and tried to let his cousins believe it was because of Ian that he'd retired, not because he'd almost died.

Not only that, but watching Sherlock and Ian navigate the conversational waters turned out to be enormous fun. It was almost a relief to see that Sherlock actually had manners when he chose to apply them. (Donovan and Anderson would probably never believe it. Not that this was an evening he planned on sharing with them.)

He wondered if he should not have kept this a secret in the first place, but no, he had made the right choice. They were accepting it now because it was in the past. So far as they knew, his life now was quiet and safe … though how long that would last once someone put the pieces together to connect him with Sherlock's partner in crime-solving…

"Oh my god! Cousin John, I just realized. You're John _Watson!_"

Yep, he thought, catching Sherlock's amused eye. Here we go.

#

THE END


End file.
